After Life, Death
by Min Daae
Summary: 5.04 AU. Castiel never expected to live through the end of the end of the world. Sam didn't either. Castiel takes care of Sam after everything doesn't end. Sort of. Chapter VIII up.
1. Chapter 1

Castiel was not stupid.

Nor was he nearly as addled by drugs as his colleagues seemed to assume. Probably a leftover of his heritage: he couldn't fly, had no power to heal, could not feel the glory of god. But drugs weren't as strong in effect or long lasting.

A dubious benefit, in Castiel's opinion.

Nonetheless, whatever else he was or wasn't (mostly wasn't) Castiel was not stupid, and he knew when Dean 'sent them on ahead' that his role this time wasn't scout or advance guard or even as Dean himself had once called him 'hammer' but a very simple one, and that was 'bait.'

He didn't particularly mind.

The former angel was tired. (Dean had called him an ex-angel once, "like ex-girlfriend," he'd explained, in a black mood, and Castiel who was at that point only human after all had punched him in the face. Dean had punched back, and Castiel had had his nose broken for the first time.) He'd been watching the man he'd fallen for disintegrate by degrees for four years. Dean was still fighting, because that was what Dean did, but Castiel could see in the set of his shoulders and the hollowness of his eyes that Dean was more despair than man by now, a shadow and less of his former self.

Castiel wished that he'd done something sooner. Disobeyed sooner, fallen sooner. But he knew that wishes meant nothing, and prayers meant even less.

And that led to here. Risa on his left and Mark on his right, a perfect living distraction. Three years ago Castiel would have fought Dean and insisted on going with him to face Lucifer. Two years ago he would have fought Dean, furious that the man he'd given up everything for could do this to him. Now it didn't matter, and if bait was what Dean decided he needed to be, then that was what he would do, and if Dean didn't expect him to walk out of this death trap, then he wouldn't. He would die, probably not bravely or well, and in all likelihood, he was well aware, Dean would die as well.

"It's damn quiet. Where are all the Croats?" Risa sounded irritable, as she often did. Castiel tilted his head and listened.

"Waiting, probably. Further up ahead." They both glanced at him. He looked back, blandly.

"Got anything else to contribute?" Risa asked, now caustic. Castiel knew she didn't like him. He suspected that it had something to do with Dean. Once, that thought would have horrified him. He was rather amused by it now.

"No," he said, "Although there is no real point in keeping our voices down. They'll still smell us." He tilted his head and listened harder. There was something, it seemed, just on the edge of hearing. It made him twitch.

"You seem even more distracted than usual. Care to share?" Risa sniped, and Castiel shook his head again. It was like buzzing, like the unpleasant feeling of dread magnified by thousands and in the air rather than himself.

"I don't know," he said, wondering if Dean had somehow… but no.

Castiel heard the Croats first, and looked up, the others a moment later. An army of them, by the sound of it. Castiel breathed in deeply. Risa's head came up and she cocked her gun. Mark lifted his rifle. Castiel drew the sword that Dean hadn't been able to make him give up. Risa turned around to back down the hallway to a defensible position, but Castiel knew what she'd find there.

She hadn't figured it out. "We've been trapped," she said, followed by, "Son of a bitch!"

"Just fight," Castiel said, and heard the hollowness in his own voice. "That's all. Fight until you can't stand anymore."

And then they were into it. Blood everywhere, and some of it was his own, probably, but he couldn't have cared less, throwing himself into the fight heedless of pain and the death throes of the Croats. He heard Mark scream and then trail off into a gurgle and didn't bother to send up a prayer.

"Cas," Risa yelled, and he turned to see she was pulling the trigger but there was only the click of an empty barrel. "_Castiel!_"

A moment later her guts were spilling out on the floor and she toppled.

Teeth sank into his arm and he stuck his sword through the young woman's eye, wading forward. "Come on!" He heard himself roar, and thought he sounded very like Dean as he'd known him once, "What are you waiting for!"

The building seemed to lurch sideways, and the buzzing built to a shrill whine. He knew before it happened what was going to. "Close your eyes," he yelled, without thinking, and wondering why he bothered because there was no one left alive unless you counted the Croats. "_Close your eyes!_"

He closed his own just in time as light blazed forth from everywhere and even if he knew it was Lucifer's victory, the sound of the Croats screaming was almost music to his ringing ears.

~.~

Castiel opened his eyes.

He was lying half under a dead man – a dead Croat, he corrected – whose lips were dripping blood. He shoved the carcass off his legs and staggered to his feet.

They were all dead. There must have been hundreds, and they were all dead where they fell. And he was alive. No doubt that oversight would be corrected soon. If he had time…

Castiel knew where he would find Lucifer, and with him, Dean. He limped down the stairs, feeling blood trickling down his arm and leg from bites that would probably get infected (but what did it matter?) and more bruises than he could count. It was quiet.

His feet crunched on the gravel as he limped toward the garden. He hoped only that the devil had not…desecrated Dean's body too terribly. No doubt this was exactly what Lucifer wanted, but he had everything else, and Castiel was tired.

He turned the corner, bracing himself, and stopped.

Two bodies. Two, not one. He blinked in incomprehension, and they both stayed just where they were. Castiel went to Dean first, in the vague hope that somehow… but his head was twisted to the side at an unnatural angle and he knew without looking too closely that his friend was definitely dead.

He turned to stare at Lucifer's vessel. No movement, no sign of life, but it didn't fit together. Lucifer wouldn't have abandoned his chosen vessel. And even if Michael had finally gotten his head out of his ass (an expression learned from Dean) he wouldn't have left _his _chosen vessel.

Castiel's brain felt slow and stupid. Lucifer seemed to be gone. Dean was dead, but it seemed that he himself was alive. He waited, half expecting the devil to reappear, and laughing at his folly, but all was perfectly quiet.

"God?" he said, finally, hesitantly, but there was no answer from that quarter either.

And then he realized that the other body, what had once been Sam Winchester, was breathing. _Alive. _He stared at Dean Winchester's erstwhile younger sibling in disbelief, and thought, loud and clearly, that there was no justice in the world at all if Dean died and Lucifer's vessel was allowed to live.

He moved forward anyway, feet like weights, and turned the man to his back. His eyelids were fluttering, eyes moving back and forth. Perhaps he was wrong, Castiel thought dully. Perhaps something had happened, who knew what, but this was still Lucifer.

In that case, he reminded himself, it hardly mattered what he did.

He left Sam where he was and went back to Dean's body, straightened his limbs and closed his eyes. Of all the human emotions, he knew grief best of all, but what he felt most right now was numbness.

It would hit him later, Castiel knew.

A soft moan from behind him and the former angel turned slowly, almost reluctantly, to watch Lucifer's former vessel struggle toward wakefulness. Castiel could only guess what it would feel like, but he knew from Jimmy Novak's oh so distant memories that it was not a pleasant feeling, and he was far less than one of the most powerful archangels. He did not feel a huge amount of sympathy.

He could have left. Taken Dean's body and gone somewhere private to give him what last rites could be done by a fallen, human angel, and to grieve. He stayed where he was. The others were dead and he knew that it wasn't, at least not _completely, _Sam's fault. There were others who had failed, he himself among them.

Castiel refocused on Sam, but he was still not awake. He sighed, and took Dean first, brought him to one of the cars that they had taken here, and laid him down in the back seat. He went back for Sam and it was only with effort that he could drag the still unconscious younger Winchester back and prop him up in the passenger seat.

He sat down in the driver's seat, examined the steering wheel and the gearshift, and took a deep breath before turning the keys in the ignition and hoping that experience from watching and one or two driving lessons was enough.

~.~

Castiel concluded that he was lucky that there hadn't been any other cars on the road.

He considered returning to Camp Chitaqua, but he didn't really want to, and he didn't think that they would take too well to having Lucifer's former vessel among them, even if it was former (however that had happened). Particularly seeing as their leader was-

He glanced into the backseat. Dean might have been sleeping, except that he never slept that well.

So he drove until he found a street with empty houses all along the row, and picked one with a nice garden. Then he reprised carrying/dragging the Winchesters out of the car, left Sam just inside the front door and took Dean out to the back.

He found a shovel in the garage.

Castiel dug the grave carefully and methodically. It wasn't his first, though it was certainly the worst. His limbs felt twice as heavy as they should have, and he was exhausted and numb and still half expecting that he would open his eyes and find himself dead any minute now. Six feet deep went too quickly, and he laid Dean to rest with a sigh and no words. He didn't feel that there were any that were particularly appropriate.

Castiel felt a little as though he should have been crying, or rending his clothes, or one of the other many things that mourners did to express their grief. Then again, he thought, perhaps this numbness was a more fitting expression, considering who it was for. Both he and Dean had been at least partly dead for a long time now, just waiting for their bodies to get the message.

And yet here he was, Castiel thought. Still alive. A guardian angel with nothing to guard.

He heard a sound from inside the house and retreated to find Sam struggling to rise, one hand gripping a table by the stairs with white knuckles and the other braced against the wall.

Castiel took a few more heavy steps forward and looked down at Sam as his head turned and bleary hazel eyes stared at him in confused incomprehension. "I expect," he said, dully, "That this will be unpleasant."

"Cas?" Sam said, his voice fractured and hoarse, and he let go of the table and grabbed Castiel's sleeve like he was clutching a lifeline. "Dean – tell me Dean's alive-"

Castiel stared down at him, throat closed, and it was almost a relief when Sam's strength gave out and he slid to the floor, teeth starting to chatter together. "Oh god," he said, "Oh _god – _I need, Castiel, please, I _need _– don't let me…"

It was tempting to stay just where he was and bear witness and nothing more. He knew the signs of withdrawal, whatever it was from, and even if Sam Winchester had survived thus far, it seemed likely that going through that ordeal would kill him now. And what did it matter, after all? Maybe Lucifer was gone, and maybe he was not, but the world was still a wreck, ending if not ended.

He thought of Dean, though, and a boy with more faith than God's messengers deserved, and how they had repaid that faith. Castiel knelt and reached out hesitantly, awkwardly, to lay a hand on Sam's already sweating forehead. "Hush," he said, and though he knew his voice was too rough to be properly soothing, perhaps it would do. "I will help you."

And Sam's head turned, barely, into Castiel's hand even as his muscles seized and a faint and desperate whimper squeezed out of his throat. It struck him as funny. They were both broken and neither of them had anything but each other. Who would ever have imagined?

"We need to move," he said, when the initial spasm seemed to have passed. "There isn't a panic room in this house, but I will find a space that will do."

Sam's eyes rolled up to stare at Castiel. "You didn't – answer," he said, even as the former angel struggled to drag him to his feet. "Dean. He's – alive, right? He has to be alive-"

Castiel gritted his teeth so he didn't say something cruel, no matter how much he wanted to, and instead said nothing at all. "Cas?" Sam said again, more urgently, but his eyes were already blurring and slipping out of focus, and he didn't feel the need to answer.

~.~

Sam screamed for almost twenty-four hours straight.

"_No! Please, god, it's not – let me go, shut up shut _up _no more just no more please, stop…" _

Most of the time, Castiel paced back and forth and pretended to sleep. He found beer bottles in the basement that weren't too bad, but they were gone fast, and when he was drunk he cried and thought about Dean and grace lost. Sometimes he got a cold washcloth and held it on Sam's forehead, trying to ease the heat that was burning through his body. Sometimes there were words to go with his hallucinations and sometimes there was just screaming and wrenching, desperate sobbing.

At least, he thought, there was still no sign of Lucifer.

Castiel prayed for understanding, but no one answered him as no one had answered him for years, for what seemed like forever. There were no orders now, not from Dean and not from Heaven; he was on his own with the man who had invited Lucifer into his skin.

The second day, Sam fell silent, and that was almost worse.

It wasn't over. His temperature was still ridiculously high and he curled into himself as much as the bonds that kept his demonic seizures from throwing him around the room would allow. But he didn't make a sound. Castiel paced more and thought again of leaving. Either Sam would survive or he would not. Castiel was doing little but keeping him company – company he was hardly even aware of – and offering comfort that was little more than false. If they had antibiotics, perhaps, but…nothing, they had nothing.

Someone knocked on the door around midday, as Castiel was giving up on getting Sam to drink something. He still had his sword and picked it up, useless though it would be against demons, and went to the door. There were three people standing on the doorstep and staring at him.

He waited. Finally one of them stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Castiel," he said, "We're from the camp. We've been looking for you."

"What for?" He asked. He was well aware of how little use he was, most of the time. They glanced at each other and the one who seemed to be playing at leader spoke again.

"We heard you were there when Dean Winchester died and Satan was banished," he said. And then cleared his throat and added, "And that you had his meat suit with you. Alive."

Castiel looked at them in silence for a few moments, and finally said, "And?"

"And we want him," spoke up one of the others, in the back. "We want proof that the devil's gone. Who better to give it than the man he was sharing a skin with?"

"You're missed too," the first man added. "We could use you, rebuilding."

Castiel noted that they did not ask where Dean was buried. "And once you had your proof," he said, after a moment. "What would you do with him then? And how would you know to begin with?"

"What does it matter?" said the third man. "He's hardly got to be human anymore."

Castiel looked at all of them, and shook his head. "No," he said.

The leader seemed to be genuinely surprised. "No what?"

"No," Castiel said again, "I won't come back. No, I won't hand him over to you. You have better things to do. This is something I have charged myself with. Please don't come back again."

The leader straightened, starting to look indignant. "Surely you aren't _defending-_"

"Do I need to?" Castiel asked, and it was no effort to put the sharp note in his voice. "Dean is buried around the back. You may pay your respects, and then leave."

He closed the door, and stood there for a while, very quiet. There was still no sound from the living room. He listened at the door until he heard the footsteps moving away.

He stalked back into the living room, his hands clenched into fists. "How is this not your fault?" he hissed to the prone figure on the sofa, curled up like he was trying to vanish. "Tell me why I shouldn't blame you, tell me why I'm still here when you _welcomed _Lucifer in, give me _one good reason _why you aren't the abomination that my brethren name you! They wanted me to hand you over, and the only reason I didn't was because _Dean _wouldn't have, and it's because of you that Dean's _dead!_"

"No," said Sam's voice, barely a whisper, and his hand groped for and grabbed Castiel's sleeve as he had when he'd first woken. "Don't – it's not true. Don't say – Cas, tell me Dean's alive- he's just pissed, that's okay, as long as he's alive-"

Castiel jerked away, pulling out of Sam's weakened grasp, and stood, the numbness in the center of him filling up with rage and grief. "He's dead," he said, voice cracking. "He's dead because you weren't strong enough. To say no to Lucifer, to keep Lucifer from killing him, and he _died."_

"No," Sam whispered, "_No,_ this isn't real, this is just – this is just-"

"It's real," Castiel said, viciously, and heard his own cruelty and didn't _care. _"It's real, and this is all there is, this is all _I _have, _you._"

He turned on his heel, didn't watch Sam curl into himself and start making plaintive, desperate noises that weren't quite sobs but hooked into Castiel's chest all the worse. He stopped halfway to what was left of the kitchen, and turned back with a sigh, anger fading too fast and leaving him empty all over again.

"I'm sorry," he said tiredly, but Sam didn't answer, murmuring under his breath too quietly for Castiel to hear. Like a coward, Castiel hoped that he wouldn't remember this later, or else that he would pass it off as a hallucination. He wished there were still alcohol in the basement, or something. He could have done with a little bit of blankness.

~.~

Sam's fever spiked during the night. Castiel could almost feel him burning up just from a hand resting on his forehead. He managed to pour some water down Sam's protesting throat, but it came back up as thin bile not an hour later. He held Sam down as he thrashed in the throes of a vicious nightmare, mouth open but throat still too raw to scream. Castiel prayed that it would end and Sam's body would give out, and then was glad that no one was listening when he remembered that would leave him alone.

It hurt the worst when Sam started calling for Dean, his voice hoarse and raw but the name still recognizable. Castiel closed his eyes and weathered it, though every time he wanted to lash out all over again; whose fault was it that Dean wasn't here to come?

He managed to hold his silence, and waited through the night, trying to force water into Sam whenever he could, not knowing what else there was to do.

Castiel was half asleep when morning came and he realized that Sam's eyes actually seemed to focus on him. Castiel stopped, halfway to replacing the ineffectual cool, damp cloth on his forehead. "I'm sorry," Sam said, his voice barely audible, and then his eyes slid closed with what sounded too much like a death rattle.

When Castiel checked hurriedly, though, Sam was still breathing. The former angel closed his eyes and tried not to feel exhaustion seeping through his veins like a living thing.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," Castiel said to the apparently unconscious man. "I have no purpose. No guide. I don't think, even if you live, that you can give me that."

He didn't realize that he'd slept until he opened his eyes with a crick in his neck and a protesting back. It took him another moment longer to realize that he was being watched: Sam's eyes were open, and tracking, relatively clear. They just stared at each other for several moments, and then Castiel cleared his throat.

"Are you-"

"Yeah, I think so." His voice was barely audible, and he coughed weakly. Castiel had nothing to say, and silence ensued. He felt exhausted, and feeling Sam stare at him was making his skin crawl.

"Are you hungry?" He asked, finally. "There's some canned food downstairs." Not much, but some. Enough, probably. Maybe. Sam turned a faint shade of green, though, and shook his head, barely.

"No."

Castiel frowned. "It has been…several days, at least."

"Longer than that." Sam's body curled into itself a little, eyelids dropping to cover his expression. "I'm not hungry. It's fine."

More silence. Castiel shifted uneasily in his chair. He had the feeling that he should have been insisting, and he knew very well that it was anything but _fine, _but he didn't really know how to go about bringing up either. Instead he said, "What do you remember?"

Sam flinched, and his voice dropped a few octaves and several notes in volume. "Enough." Whatever that meant. Castiel opened his mouth, but Sam spoke up again, and his voice was hollow this time. "I thought I…you said Dean was…dead. That was real. Wasn't it?"

Castiel nearly wanted to flinch himself, feeling suddenly ashamed. He should have broken the news more gently. He should have… "Yes," he said, finally. "It's…true." He half opened his mouth to say that it wasn't Sam's fault, not entirely, not _exactly, _but he couldn't make the words come out, not when he couldn't believe them himself.

Sam made a strange choking noise, and turned his head away. Castiel listened to him breathe unevenly for a few moments, then stood up and reached out hesitantly. "Sam-"

"You should go," Sam said, and Castiel could hear the sound in his voice of trying not to cry. He remembered the same from Dean when the news had first come from Detroit. The hollow space inside carved a little deeper.

"Yes," he agreed, "I probably should."

Silence again, and Sam asked, "Why don't you?"

"You aren't yet well enough to be on your own," Castiel said, because he wasn't sure why himself and it was the simplest answer that presented itself. Sam snorted.

"Don't wait around for that," he said, quietly and bitterly. His face was still turned away from Castiel, and Castiel had a feeling he didn't want to see his expression anyway. It might too much mirror his own.

Castiel sighed. "_I _would rather not be alone," he tried, and Sam made a faint huffing sound.

"Couldn't you find someone better to not be alone with?"

"No," Castiel said, his own frustration stirring again. "Evidently," and regretted it the moment the words were out. More silence, and Castiel half opened his mouth to offer an apology, but Sam beat him to it.

"Sorry," he said, voice back down to a whisper, "I'm sorry, Cas. You deserve better. You really do."

"No," Castiel said, feeling worse than before, "I," but he could tell by the set of Sam's shoulders and the sound of his breathing that he was either unconscious again or pretending to be, and his apology felt worthless now.

He went to the kitchen and made tomato soup out of one of the cans instead, boiling the water over a fire out behind the house, a few feet from Dean's grave. "What do I do?" He asked, aloud. "What do I do now?"

He went back inside with two bowls of soup, trooped upstairs, and found Sam rolled out of bed and curled up on the floor, tears streaking down his face as he made strangled sobbing noises, rocking back and forth with his eyes closed tightly.

Castiel squeezed his own eyes closed, set the bowls of soup down, and then knelt, slowly, slid his arms carefully around Lucifer's former vessel, and held him as best as he could, trying to breathe steadily. "It's all right," he lied, as solidly as he could. "Just sleep. Just _rest._"

Sam eased, far too slowly, and lay at last only shuddering in Castiel's arms. His shoulder was damp, and all that Castiel could think was how strange the world was, and always had been. "I'm sorry," he said, inadequate as it was, and even though Sam couldn't hear him. "There is so much I should not have done." He almost hoped for an answer, but he didn't get one.

He stayed where he was, only shifting to lean against the bed, and hoping that he could at least do some good.

Sam woke up before he did and blinked at Castiel in confusion, and the former angel was only glad that the other didn't ask questions that he didn't have the words to answer. There were hollows around Sam's eyes and Castiel thought that he must look the same. He let the other pull away and pushed the bowl of soup in his direction without thinking.

Sam ate the soup even though it was cold and he looked like he was going to be sick with every bite. Castiel watched him closely, swishing the spoon through his own bowl and waiting for something, he didn't know what.

"Where," Sam said, suddenly, and then winced, pressed a hand to his throat, and swallowed before trying again. "—where is Dean buried?"

Castiel blinked, once, and then pointed toward the back door. Sam stood up, abandoning the remaining half of the soup, and went outside. After a moment, Castiel followed. Sam was standing by the mound of earth with its simple cross marker, his shoulders shaking.

"The last memories I have," he started to say, and then stopped. Castiel didn't want to ask, and stayed on the porch, knowing there was something he was meant to do and not willing to think hard enough to see what it was. Sam took a deep breath.

"It's over now, isn't it?" he said, finally. "_He – _Lucifer's gone. The apocalypse is…over."

Castiel shifted, slightly uneasily. "It seems that way." Sam nodded, slowly, then turned around and trudged past Castiel, back into the house. He followed more slowly, stepped into the kitchen and found Sam with the knife drawer open, examining one of the blades, turning it back and forth.

He stilled. "Sam?"

Sam looked up, briefly, his eyes dull and his voice even duller. "If that's it," he said, "If it's…_over, _then the world doesn't need me anymore."

Castiel took a slow step forward. "No," he said, and Sam just stared at him.

"No?"

"No," he said again, more fiercely. "That's not the way it _works._"

Sam lowered the knife, and stared at Castiel. "Why not? I'm tired, Castiel, I'm tired and fucked up and my brother is _dead_, how does anything work anymore? I don't know what you want, I don't know what you're trying to do here. You don't want to be around me and I-"

"You're not the only one," Castiel said, and couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice, because he'd heard the same thing from Dean, over and over, and sometimes he wondered how the man he called his friend could forget that he wasn't the only one who had suffered loss. "You're not the only one who is tired and fucked up, you're not the only one who lost everything." Sam's head went down, and Castiel sucked in a breath. "Don't," he said, before anything could be said. "It doesn't matter. All I mean is – that you're not the only one."

There was a brief silence, and then the knife went down, and after a moment Sam set it on the counter and moved away, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't know what to do," he said, and Castiel felt a brief brush of dark amusement.

"Yes, well. Join the club."

"You sound like-" Sam cut off, choked. His expression spasmed. "God," he said; whispered. "Cas. What are we going to do?"

We, Castiel thought, and closed his eyes. "I don't know," he said. "Anything." He took a deep breath, and let it out. "But not alone."

Sam turned his head slowly, dropped his hands and looked at Castiel. His face flickered between doubt and unwilling hope, and finally he dropped his eyes. "Not alone," he said, "All right."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Thank T.L. Arens for the fact that this story has a second chapter. I don't know where it's going or if it's even going, but this happened, anyway, and I'm not going to ask too many questions. _

Neither of them knew what to do with the other.

Sam was still, quite clearly, unwell. He ate, from what Castiel could tell, too little and seldom. He often simply sat staring at nothing. There was clearly something wrong, but whatever it was, Castiel did not have the ability nor the will to pry it out of him.

And Castiel was suffering his own withdrawal.

He felt twitchy and uncomfortable, though he was well aware it would get worse than that. Though he doubted it would reduce him to a screaming, gibbering wreck. This time. Whatever it was from (and it could have been one of many things) there wasn't any to be found in this damned house.

Sam, Castiel was sure, was quite aware of his discomfort, but didn't know what to do about it and so pretended he didn't notice. He remembered a compassionate young man for all his faults and wondered where he had gone, but not for long.

It was a testament to the endurance of the human soul, really, that Sam wasn't worse off.

They were both shattered, almost too much to begin to pick up the pieces again, and Castiel treasured no illusions that they were anything like safe. He knew better than that.

They avoided each other, mostly. Castiel wasn't sure if Sam didn't want to be near him or thought that Castiel didn't want to be near Sam. Either was probably equally valid, though it made the house feel little more than empty, and Castiel craved the company, miserable and tainted though it was. Being alone, he thought too much, and wallowed in his misery.

Dean had still not risen from the dead.

"Some people came," Castiel said, to make conversation. Sam startled a little, as if he had been thinking about something else, which indeed he probably was – and Castiel doubted it was the canned peaches that sat untouched in front of him.

"What? Sorry, I wasn't…"

"Some people came," Castiel repeated. "While you were…struggling. From Camp Chitaqua."

Sam played with his spoon. "I don't know what that is," he said, though something in his face made Castiel doubt that was the entire truth. The ex-angel took a bite of peaches and grimaced at the cloying taste.

He still didn't know what residue Lucifer had left in the youngest Winchester's head. Still didn't know what memories Sam did and didn't have; if he'd seen Dean die, if he'd seen himself wreak destruction across the land. He didn't dare to ask, and Sam didn't offer answers. It was one of their many unspoken agreements, like the one to mention Dean as little as possible. "It was," Castiel said, knowing he was about to break that rule, "Where we were living. Myself and – your brother."

Sam's hand stilled. His eyes dropped. "He was their…leader, yeah?"

"Yes," Castiel agreed, and waited. Sam pushed the peaches away and stood up.

"They wanted me," he said, voice heavy. Castiel just nodded briefly, allowing that. It was the truth, after all. Sam's mouth twisted and he looked, for a moment, like he was going to say something stupid like _you should have let them take me _and Castiel was relatively certain that if he had, he would have punched Sam in the face.

Sam didn't, though. He shrugged, barely, and said, "Do they know what I look like?"

"I don't know," Castiel said, honestly. "Maybe, maybe not."

Sam pushed the peaches away without even looking at them, and gave Castiel the squarest stare he'd received from the younger Winchester…probably ever. "Am I putting you in danger by associating with you?"

"Yes," Castiel said, because he didn't see the point in lying when Sam wouldn't have believed it anyway. "But I don't think that it'll be a problem."

Sam made a soft noise that was somewhere between a snort and a bitter laugh. "Yeah," he agreed, after a moment, "I guess not."

Castiel looked at the peaches, and then gestured to them. "Don't waste food. We don't have enough of it for that."

Sam stared at him for a long moment. Castiel had never seen much of a resemblance between Sam and his brother, but he could see it now, in that hollow-eyed stare that wasn't so much challenge as disbelief. "Yeah," said Sam, though, just as Castiel was bracing for an argument that he always would have lost with Dean, "Okay."

Castiel was far from certain that they wouldn't just come up later, but it seemed worth a try to him. At least at the moment.

"How far is the camp from here?" Sam asked, suddenly. Castiel looked sharply in his direction.

"Don't go looking for it."

Sam's smile was not really much of one. It was more of a sideways slash, a slight alteration of the usual downward curve of his mouth. "I don't have a death wish, Cas," he murmured. Castiel just looked at him until Sam added, with even more gallows wryness, "Not actively, anyway."

Castiel found that extraordinarily far from comforting, but he didn't find very much comforting these days, if anything at all. "Maybe twenty miles," Castiel said, finally. "I'm not sure."

Sam nodded, and returned to picking at his peaches with the resigned sort of air of a man sentenced to execution. _Fine company I keep_, Castiel thought. _Less than a decade ago I was singing God's praises alongside my brothers and sisters. _

He pictured Dean lifting a glass in his direction with a "bully for you, ex-angel." If he expressed the same thought to Sam, he suspected he would only see guilt and more silence, and Castiel already had plenty of that.

He preferred the former answer, really, but then he had always preferred Dean; both of them had.

They were both poor substitutes.

Castiel's head was starting to ache. He swallowed a couple times and said, "I wish I had some alcohol at least."

Sam glanced up. "Are you going to be all right?"

"What an inane question," Castiel sneered before he thought better of it. "Is anyone going to be all right? No. I'm going to take a nap." Sam looked like he wanted to say something as Castiel pushed his chair back and stood up, wobbling slightly.

But he remained silent, eyes staring through the peaches and the table at something else entirely.

~.~

What had been a nap turned into hours, and when Castiel opened his eyes the light burned and the first thing he felt able to do was roll over and vomit on the wood floor next to the couch as his stomach tried to tie itself in knots.

He could see Sam's feet. It appeared to be dark outside, and his sole companion was sitting across the room watching him sleep. Dean had always found it strange when Castiel did the same thing, back before he'd needed sleep.

Castiel heaved a few more times and stayed where he was, hanging off the couch. "What is it?" Sam asked, and Castiel knew he knew what it _was _but was just asking what it _was. _

"I'm not sure," he said, finally. "Could be anything. And I mean anything." He shifted back onto the couch and pressed his face into the scratchy decorative pillow with half its stuffing hanging out. Rather, Castiel thought grimly, like himself at the moment.

He heard Sam shift. "I checked next door," the younger Winchester said, and Castiel noted that his voice was soft even with Castiel's over-sensitized hearing. He was momentarily grateful. "There wasn't anything useful there."

"Stop talking," Castiel said, "And leave me alone."

Silence ensued, and he heard Sam shuffle away after a few minutes. Castiel slipped back into oblivion. It wasn't nearly as nice as it sounded. Mostly, he saw Dean with a broken neck and Lucifer in Sam's body strangling him into submission until his knees gave way. He could feel his Grace draining from his body all over again and remembered the first time he had tried to fly and found he could not, though the wings themselves had taken days longer to melt away.

Human, they were all far too human now.

It could have been hours or days later when he jolted back to hear the door close too quietly. Castiel managed to lift his throbbing head. He felt miserably ill, but before he could think better, managed, "Dean?"

A slight pause, just long enough for Castiel to remember where he was and that Dean was buried and decomposing in the lot behind the house. His vision cleared, marginally, and he observed Sam staring at him, a livid, dark bruise on his cheekbone. He took a step forward, moving strangely carefully. "Hey," Sam said, his voice still low but sounding oddly rough. "I found some…stuff. Might help. I dunno…"

Castiel turned over, because his whole body was aching and everything felt uncomfortable. He breathed a few times, and finally said, "You shouldn't have gone out."

It didn't take a genius to figure out. And Castiel wasn't a genius, but he wasn't an idiot either, and he had known Dean, who would have done the same thing before he'd crumbled and fallen apart.

Sam flinched, visibly, and turned to go into the kitchen. Castiel's teeth ground together as his jaw clenched and he flashed hot and cold by turns. The walking wounded, he thought dizzily, that's what we are.

"Someone recognized me." Sam's voice was so low that Castiel almost didn't hear him, and it took a few moments to permeate his brain. So that bruise wasn't just random people trying to get something for themselves.

It occurred to him that Sam could have been gunned down by a distance while getting some probably useless drugs for a fallen angel who was also basically useless, and he was briefly relieved that the younger Winchester was still alive.

"What did you do?" he managed to ask, and somehow it managed to come out wrong, accusation instead of worry. Sam's voice when he replied was so neutral that he knew it was anything but.

"I ran."

Castiel swallowed convulsively, feeling another surge of brutal nausea. "Good," he said, to make up for his earlier tone. Sam said nothing, but a moment later a glass and some pills appeared in front of his face. He swallowed without argument and Sam retreated again, even his relatively light steps like hammers to Castiel's skull.

"Sorry," said Sam. Castiel guessed it was probably the 110th time in two days. And all for things that hardly mattered.

Though Castiel could understand that, at least. Some things, there was no apology for. After all, it was not as though he had ever brought up locked doors and careful manipulation, nor did he intend to. At this point, he wasn't sure it even mattered.

The former angel sighed and pretended to be unconscious. For a few seconds. Then he forced his eyes open and asked, "Did you lock the door?"

"Yes."

Great, monosyllables. He knew that strategy. "Don't go out again."

He almost heard the wry, bitter twist of Sam's mouth. "Don't worry about me."

Castiel didn't feel capable of explaining that worrying about someone else was the only thing that would keep him from despair, and sometimes he wasn't sure that even that would be enough.

~.~

The pills seemed to help, a little. At least, the next time Castiel surfaced he felt less like clawing his own eyes out and while his stomach still lurched and tossed it didn't feel like it was heaving up into his throat again.

So that was an improvement.

For a moment, he panicked, not seeing Sam, but the next there was a cup of hot tea under his nose. "It's snowing out," Sam said. "What month is it?"

Castiel considered that, and finally said, "I don't know. I don't think it matters. The weather patterns…are probably off anyway." He didn't say, because of Lucifer, or because of you, but he saw Sam twitch out of the corner of his eye anyway.

Castiel didn't want him to forget, but nonetheless, he wished at the same time that Sam didn't react like that quite so much. He reached for the tea and took a slow sip, warily. It was cooled enough not to burn his mouth. A small and thoughtful touch.

The former angel felt absurdly and obscurely guilty.

"So…you went out," he said, slowly. His throat ached and Castiel didn't want to know if he'd been screaming. The circles around Sam's eyes, almost purple, told him nothing. Those had been there since the end of the end. "What was it…like? Out there."

One of Sam's shoulders went up, then down. Castiel couldn't make out his features clearly but thought he could see a pinch that might have been pain, or grief, or anger, or really just about anything. "It was…better than I expected," he said, finally. "I remember…"

Sam stopped that sentence quickly.

"…there were people. Some, anyway. Foraging through houses. A supermarket – that's where I got the tea and shit. Looked like it had been blocked or something, so not looted before now…lucky."

Castiel coughed and took another sip of tea. The steam felt good on his throat and his nostrils. He'd enjoyed coffee, but this was – good also. He supposed. "And the people who…recognized you?"

Silence. For a moment Castiel thought Sam would leave, or just shut down and not answer, or change the subject. He took a deep, shuddery breath, though, and said, "It was – a man and – I guess she was his daughter. They weren't all that close. I didn't listen to what they were saying, and then they started throwing things and I – yeah. Ran."

_Lie, or half truth, _Castiel evaluated without meaning to, but just nodded. "It could be personal," he said, aware that it failed as a comfort.

"Yeah," Sam allowed, "Or I could be a liability. No – sorry. I shouldn't…finish your tea."

_You and Dean change subjects in almost the same way, but he curses more, _Castiel thought, but the words tasted sour even in his mind and he doubted they would have helped. He let it go, and Sam retreated into the kitchen.

He came back with a bowl of soup, but this one seemed to be for himself, and sat down cross-legged on the floor. Sam picked at his soup and Castiel closed his eyes, expecting the conversation to be over.

"What was he like?" Sam asked, abruptly.

Castiel's eyes felt full of grit and his face still felt hot. He was not in the mood, and Sam had that expression on his face that Castiel was beginning to recognize as meaning that he was mentally self-flagellating.

"Who?" he managed, feigning ignorance and hoping their agreement to stay away from speaking Dean's name aloud would stop Sam.

It didn't. "Dean," Sam said, with just a tiny hitch to his voice. "What was he like? After…" he trailed off and lowered his eyes. Castiel closed his.

What could he say? That Dean had been dying by degrees for four years? That he had become ruthless, allowed Hell to take over his life? That he was a great leader and a terrifying man? That he had cursed Sam as often as he had pleaded for Michael?

Castiel shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he mumbled, setting the tea on the floor and curling into himself a little.

"I want to know," Sam said. "Do you think you'd be replacing good memories? Because it's not like the last time…" He cut off. "I know you probably don't…I'm sorry."

"Mmmhm," Castiel said, hoping against hope that Sam would take the hint. Dean's drunken, broken voice hacked into his thoughts. _Sam always used to push and push and push – god. Never knew when to stop. Sammy… _Castiel winced.

"Cas, please?" Sam's voice was pleading – genuine, edged with a kind of desperation that Castiel knew because he felt it himself. And after years of who knew what, that was all Sam had to come back to. "You're the only link to him I have left."

Castiel's heart panged – or maybe it was just his lungs. Hard to say, in his current state. His mood darkened. "It doesn't matter," he said again. "Now shut up and let me try to sleep." He expected Sam to keep pressing, but oppressive silence settled instead.

Finally, as Castiel tried and failed to slip into sleep, he heard Sam get up and move away. He wondered if he was going to weep, or go outside and get himself killed, or just sit staring at Dean's grave.

It was probably sad that he didn't have any more energy to care.

~.~

He woke up gasping from a dream he didn't remember, a steaming bowl of soup much like Sam's earlier next to his head – and no sign of his sole companion. His stomach roiled and Castiel couldn't tell if it was nausea or hunger. It was dark outside again, so he'd been sleeping for a while.

He reached for the soup and tried a bite. It was overly salty, but it tasted like the best thing he'd ever eaten and his stomach settled. He took a few more bites, slowly and warily, but it seemed to be fine.

The door opened and closed and Castiel paused in eating until Sam slid into the room, still moving gingerly in a way that made Castiel wonder where else he was bruised, or if he was hiding something worse than bruises.

"Hey," Sam said, sounding weary. He probably hadn't slept. Castiel suspected he didn't, really. "Feel better?"

Castiel returned to his soup with a slight nod, feeling awkward all over again. He heard Sam shuffle, and then sink into a chair across the room. "I'm pretty sure there's a demon nearby," said the younger Winchester, after what seemed a very long silence (and five bites of soup). "I…felt it. Earlier."

The former angel looked up and blinked once. Sam wasn't looking at him. "Is that new?" He asked, bluntly. Sam twitched again.

"Sort of. Yeah. Before…sometimes I could tell, but at a distance…" He made a sound like an anemic laugh. "What's that make me, huh?"

"Useful," Castiel said. He frowned at his soup and took another bite, but it tasted like ashes now, and he pushed the bowl away. He knew his eyes were sharp when he glanced back up at Sam. "Could you get rid of it?"

Sam's shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. "I don't know. Maybe."

Castiel dropped his eyes, not quite embarrassed. He heard Sam take a sharp breath in. "Maybe we should move," Sam said. "Go somewhere…else."

"Do you think there's anywhere you can run where someone won't find you?" Castiel said, and meant to be gentle, but he didn't think it really worked. Sam rolled his shoulders and shifted like he wanted to stand up and pace.

"Then maybe all I can do is keep running. If you want to stay-"

"And how long do you think you'll survive on your own?" Castiel asked, and felt cruel – but he knew he was right. And even more, he didn't want to be alone and wasn't sure that anyone else would tolerate him – or that he would tolerate anyone else. "With demons, hunters, everybody, gunning for your head?"

Sam's hands tangled together and he muttered something. Castiel tensed.

"What?"

"And what does that matter?" Sam said, bleakly, too softly.

Anger welled up and he grabbed the half-full bowl of soup, hurled it to the left of Sam's head. "Screw you," he hissed, and broke the rule with special emphasis, "_Dean _was right. You _are _a selfish bastard."

He flipped over, back to the room and Sam, face in the cushions. They smelled like wisteria and smoke.

~.~

Castiel felt better when he woke up. Sort of. Better than he had last time, perhaps. His head wasn't pounding quite so hard, and the nauseating stomach cramps seemed to have passed. And he could hear mumbling, low, incoherent, and who the hell was Sam talking to?

For a second, he thought lurchingly, _demon. _Lucifer, the deceiver, the manipulator, here all along – but that was absurd. He was still alive. There was no reason for him to still be alive.

He shook the thought away and rolled off the couch. His muscles felt stiff and too tight, but Castiel shuffled along the hallway to see what Sam was doing. He found himself at the foot of the stairs and stared bleakly up them, almost reconsidering. Eventually he made up his mind, though, and struggled up them, then down another short hallway to the room from which Sam's voice was emanating. He paused before opening the door to listen.

"Just want," he heard, and then a shuddering pause. A moment later, "I hope you're watching out for Dean. Maybe I shouldn't be talking to you, but I – there's got to be a reason I – _we – _are alive, right? Just give me something – _anything – _to work with. Cause right now…I've got nothing."

Castiel slammed the door open and Sam jerked his head up from where it had been bowed, seeming genuinely surprised. "You're up," he started to say, and Castiel cut him off, anger surging through his veins, and he wasn't sure if it was at Sam or not.

"What are you doing?" He snapped.

Sam looked like he wanted to curl into himself. "I was-"

Castiel answered his own question instead of waiting for a lie. "Praying. You were _praying._" Castiel heard the edge in his own bitter, near hysterical laughter. "After everything, you still-"

"I have to believe there's some reason," said Sam, and there was a desperate tone to his voice, no matter how quiet. "Some-"

"Some what?" Castiel scoffed, though it hurt his throat. "_Higher power? _Some purpose to the destruction and death? Some reason for your letting Lucifer swallow your soul and spit it back out? Some mysterious intent that _Dean _had to _die for?_"

"Cas," said Sam, but his voice sounded distant, and Castiel could hear himself breathing too hard and too fast, but he didn't listen, couldn't stop. "If he's there, he doesn't care, isn't listening, and if he is, I hate him. _I hate him!" _Castiel yelled the last upward. "For what he's allowed to happen, to Dean, to me, even to you. He's dead to me. _Dead._ I spent years searching for my father, asking him for aid or guidance and I still fell, I still _lost _everything that mattered. He didn't stop you from saying yes to Lucifer. He didn't stop me from falling out of grace and hasn't given it back now that it's over. Dean's dead and so many others too, and he remains silent, and you think that _your _prayers can reach him where mine did not-"

He opened his mouth to say more, ignoring the stricken expression on Sam's face, but his brain short-circuited. He could feel himself hyperventilating, his chest tightening like metal bands were squeezing around it, and Castiel sank down, shaking. He needed to calm down, slow his breathing – but he couldn't, couldn't, couldn't.

Someone started rubbing his back, slow motions, up and down and up and down again. "Hey," they said, "Hey – just – easy. Try to – listen to me. Breathe in – with me – out, in-"

He could feel someone there, their rib cage expanding and deflating against his side. Castiel's breathing hitched as he tried to pull it in, but the second time it seemed to work better.

He came down slowly, and for a moment thought it was Dean, but Dean had never done something like this for him. Different kinds of help, yes, but not like this. And whoever it was fell silent as his breathing quieted and his head stopped spinning.

Castiel wanted to fold like a house of cards. He forced himself to remain upright.

He recognized Sam's hands now, and missed their warmth when he pulled them away. "Jesus," said Sam's voice. "Sorry. I didn't think – sorry. You're right. S'stupid anyway."

Castiel shook his head, barely, and managed to say, "Just not around me. Whatever you need…just not around me."

He had the feeling nonetheless that Sam would not say anything again, and felt almost guilty. If, somehow, Sam still had faith...who was he to steal it away or, even, be jealous of it?

Too late.

Silence. He heard Sam start to get up. "I'll go get some – uh, something. And help you downstairs, if you…"

"No," Castiel rasped, cutting him off. "No, just – stay here. I'm-"

"Not all right," Sam said, and it sounded like an old grim joke. "Don't give me that." Castiel grimaced and pretended it was a smile, more or less. It was as close as he felt he could come.

Sam sat down on the floor, cross-legged again. He looked anywhere but at Castiel, and the former angel leaned back against the bed and wondered what was behind that suddenly inscrutable face across from him.

"Do you think Dean's better off?" Sam asked, abruptly. "—wherever he is now. Heaven. I hope."

Castiel thought of Dean, and wondered what he would think of them now. If he would be scornful or sorrowful, if he would be trying to get them to move on. What he would have said to make Sam feel better, if he'd still been willing to, or if he would have pushed Sam away instead. If he would have been healed by their victory or be just as much of a wreck as the rest of them.

Wondered where Dean even was, now, if he had found his way to Heaven after everything and was just waiting for them there.

"I don't know," he said, finally.

"I hope so," Sam said. "He deserves better."

It was the most, Castiel thought, that they had talked about Dean ever. It felt like he was coming apart at the seams inside, and he wondered what Sam felt like. If it was worse, or just distant for him. He coughed out a laugh that he didn't feel. "Better than you?" He asked wryly. "Or than me?"

Sam made another one of those anemic laughs like he was really trying but didn't really remember how to make the sound. "Both, probably," he said, and then nodded, more firmly. "Yeah, probably both."

He wasn't a saint, Castiel found himself wanting to say. Just a man.

He didn't know why he even wanted to say it.

More silence.

"We are a pair," Sam said. "Sometimes…" but he didn't finish the thought. Castiel sometimes thought that he heard Lucifer in every one of Sam's silences; his shadow, at least. Gone but not forgotten.

_A pair, _Castiel thought. _Are we so much as that? Or just two people clinging to each other because there's nothing else to do? _His head was starting to throb again, but it was just a headache, now. Maybe the withdrawal was passing. Or maybe it was just another small respite on a road that seemed too long and too tangled to pursue.

What had his life become, after all?

He nodded. "Yeah," he agreed finally. "A pair."


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Still here. And apparently I have kind of a vague direction now. A little. Maybe._

It was interesting, Castiel noted, that the more he recovered – and he was recovering – the more Sam seemed to diminish. Or perhaps it was simply the contrast between his own improvement and Sam's lack of anything similar.

A source of more frustration than pity or sympathy.

It was not, Castiel admitted, that Sam's misery intruded or distracted. On the contrary, it was sometimes easy to forget he wasn't alone in the damned house. Sam made himself as quiet as possible. Maybe that was exactly what bothered him. He wanted a companion.

Castiel understood that perhaps Sam needed solitude, or perhaps this was the only way he knew how to handle whatever was in his head that both of them had agreed not to talk about. Nonetheless, it was lonely, and Castiel was tired of loneliness.

Sometimes he felt as though he'd been alone since Sam had accepted Lucifer and Dean had begun to fade in earnest.

Unsure what to say, though, he largely left Sam to himself.

The house provided little in the sense of resources and less in the sense of entertainment. He found a few books and read through them in a day, most of them less than edifying. He was beginning to feel the strain of being stuck here, so completely without resources or friends or-

Some part of him, he realized, still expected Dean to come back. Someone had done for Lucifer and left Sam alive. He didn't understand why the same someone didn't bring Dean back.

Maybe he really was in a better place.

Castiel scoffed and chopped with more vehemence. The apples from the trees in the back yard were small, hard, and sour at best, but they were still apples and didn't come from a can.

It was, as far as Castiel was concerned, an improvement, but Sam ignored them much as he ignored everything else. Castiel ate them alone, looking out at the grave site.

He wondered what the point of it was. Considered asking Dean, but that was the sort of question Dean would have laughed at.

He wandered back inside and caught Sam curled up in a chair with a book in his lap, almost as though he were reading. Castiel could see the distance in his eyes, though, and knew better than that. He sat down on the couch. Neither of them moved.

"What did you do?" Castiel asked, and regretted his phrasing a moment later as Sam's hands twitched and he looked up, expression fearful.

"What do you mean-"

"After you and Dean separated," Castiel clarified. "What did you do?"

Sam blinked. His shoulders twitched in a way Castiel had identified meant nerves. He cleared his throat. "Why does it matter?" He asked, finally. Castiel shrugged.

"Maybe it doesn't. Maybe it does." He watched Sam's shoulders migrate up to his ears. "I doubt that it can be worse than after Detroit," he said, with a flash of impulsive, childish cruelty, and hated himself a moment later for it when Sam curled up like he'd been kicked in the stomach. Or gutted.

"Just – nothing. I didn't really do anything."

"Years of nothing? I find that doubtful."

"Just – nothing that matters."

Castiel had never understood, before his fall, why people asked so many questions. Why they had to push when told that a question didn't need to be asked, or wasn't important, or was in poor taste. It had always struck him as rude.

He understood now. "It matters enough to bother you, plainly."

Something in Sam's expression, a mix of consternation, reluctance, and weariness, reminded him suddenly (too much) of Dean. "Do we have to – do this, Cas? I don't want to-"

"You don't want to anything. Were you drinking demon blood?"

"No!" He sounded almost indignant. Castiel waited, and Sam looked away. "Just a lot of – trying to get away. Running. From Him."

Another cruel impulse, of loneliness or vindictiveness or some mix of both, spurred Castiel to say, "From Lucifer?" And watch Sam flinch. A moment later he felt poorly for it. And foolish.

"Yeah," Sam said, a moment later, but still didn't speak the name. "It didn't…really work."

"He could reach you in dreams," Castiel said. Not with understanding. He kept his voice flat, neutral. Sam just nodded, very slightly. "Did you try to die?" he asked, bluntly. Carelessly, though he knew that last was a lie.

Sam said nothing. It was answer enough. There was a silence.

Finally, Sam said, "I prayed to you, sometimes," and Castiel was reminded of how much words could sting. "Just for an answer. Just to know how Dean was doing."

Castiel wondered if the younger Winchester intended to wound. He wouldn't have been surprised, and Sam wouldn't have been entirely without cause. Nonetheless, the feeling was wrong. It was just a statement.

He couldn't remember ever hearing Sam's prayers. But then, he hadn't really been listening.

They both fell silent and held very still, as though they might forget the other was there if they were both quiet enough.

~.~

There were light showers the next day. There was no sun to make the drops of water sparkle, and the clouds were still hung heavy and stormy, but it might almost have been a normal early summer day. Castiel found Sam outside, barefoot in the wet grass.

"It feels good," Sam said, and something in his face was lighter. "I don't remember…I can't remember the last time I just – put my toes in some grass." It was dry and more yellow than green in the backyard, but Castiel said nothing, and just watched.

"This is okay," Sam said. Castiel nodded. Sam didn't smile, but his shoulders seemed to relax, just a little. "This is okay," he said again, and breathed in deep.

The air still smelled slightly sour and wrong to Castiel, but he wondered if perhaps it wasn't better to Sam. It was air, and he was breathing it, free of Lucifer's influence. Perhaps that was enough.

Perhaps he was simply supposed to appreciate.

"I thought I saw a cat," Sam said a moment later. "I was going to try to catch it, but it ran away."

"It was probably a raccoon," Castiel said, "Or a coyote."

Sam's frown was less unhappy than peeved, and it reminded Castiel of the man he had first met, stubborn yet faithful, defying the angels' will, standing between them and his brother, as yet unbowed despite his taint. "It was a cat. I think I know a cat from a raccoon, Cas."

Castiel wondered about that. What was still alive in this world. Which of God's creatures had survived. "Perhaps it was a cat," Castiel said. "It seems to be gone now."

"Is there something we can put out? Maybe it'll come back."

Castiel frowned. "I don't see why it matters."

The peevishness melted from Sam's face. "It matters," he said, softer. "It matters because something else is still alive out there. Something ordinary like a cat that's probably as lonely as we are."

"I'm not lonely," Castiel said, and Sam looked straight at him and for a moment the former angel had the eerie feeling that he wasn't the one perceiving more than the surface, that Lucifer's former vessel was looking straight through him and deep beneath the skin.

"You aren't?" he said, simply. "I'm all the company you want?"

Castiel didn't answer. Sam shook his head. "I don't blame you," he said, again in that quiet, measured voice. "I really…I'm going back a little ways. There's a tree back there, I'm just going to – think."

"All right," Castiel said, because Sam seemed to be waiting, and indeed after he said it Sam turned away. Castiel went back into the house and wandered aimlessly into the kitchen; stood in the middle, looking around himself.

_If I could choose my company, _he thought, _who would I want with me? _

_If I could rejoin Heaven, would I? _

Sam didn't come in until well after dark, and Castiel had nearly started to worry. The younger Winchester looked tired and dirty. Castiel looked at him questioningly. "I fell asleep," Sam said, and that answered all the questions.

Castiel wondered what Sam dreamed about. And then wondered if maybe it was better not to know.

Sam had an apple for dinner and drank a glass of water. He didn't eat any soup. Castiel wondered how many of his ribs were visible.

"Starving to death is a long way to die," he said, as bluntly as he dared. Sam seemed startled out of a daze.

"I'm fine," he said, "I'm just not hungry." Castiel considered that. Lucifer had probably never bothered to eat. Maybe Sam had simply forgotten how to go about it. Forgotten that he needed to.

It was a quiet thought, but an unhappy one nonetheless.

Castiel spent the night awake, and for the first time Sam slept the whole night through. Or at least he didn't rise. Castiel pictured him lying awake in bed staring blankly at the ceiling and wondered if that was really better.

~.~

"We're running low on food," Castiel said at what passed for dinner. Sam looked up from eying his like it might bite and took a moment too long to answer.

"Oh. Yeah." Both his hands came up and he rubbed his eyes. "I can-"

"I will," the former angel said with abrupt confidence. "I'll handle it. I need to get out of this house anyway."

For just a second, something flickered in Sam's eyes, but it was gone too quickly to identify. "Okay," Sam said. "-yeah, okay."

"It's safer besides," Castiel said, and then wondered why he felt the need to continue excusing himself. Sam stirred his congealing soup, took a small bite, and didn't respond. "Well?" Castiel said, voice a bit more demanding.

"Sure," said Sam. "Fine. Didn't know you needed my permission."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "What's your-"

Sam glanced up. "Just go," he said. "I don't blame you for needing to get out of this house." There was something in his voice that Castiel couldn't identify. Dean would have known what it meant. Castiel didn't have the energy to figure it out.

"I'll be back before long," he said. Sam put down his spoon.

"Okay."

"Don't go out."

"I'm not stupid," Sam said shortly. Castiel almost said something sharp, and managed not to. He found a bag in the closet and slung it over his shoulder, feeling Sam's eyes on him. Striding for the door, he was halted by the younger Winchester's voice. "Be careful," Sam said.

He paused for just a moment. "I'll be back," he said again, and, resolute, slipped out the door.

It was quiet outside, but not as desolate as he'd expected. There was a sparrow singing that Castiel stared at in disbelief. The sky was gray, the clouds hanging low overhead, but he held still for a moment. Breathing in air that seemed cleaner than before.

He started walking, looking around, taking in everything he hadn't seen before. There was still a dusting of dirty snow on the ground. Maybe, he thought. Maybe.

Castiel made his way through the streets in the direction he guessed was the way to go. It didn't take him too long to find the grocery (lucky thing) and he paused, looking for looters - or any people, really – but nothing. He stepped out, making a beeline for the door still half blockaded.

"Oh my god, Cas?"

The former angel wheeled, groping for a weapon he didn't have, and then his eyes just widened. "Jane?" he said incredulously. Her rifle, pointed at his face, wavered.

"Is that you?" she asked. "Really – I thought you were dead. No one knew – what happened. Or at least no one told me." Her eyes narrowed. "What-"

Castiel cut her off. "It's me. Can you get that out of my face?"

Jane's eyes narrowed further. "Cas, are you – are you _sober?_" She seemed to find this even more alarming than the fact that he was alive. Then, he did have a reputation. One well earned.

"Yes," said Castiel simply, and when she frowned, reluctantly asked, "What did you hear?"

Jane finally pulled up the gun. "That Dean was dead, but he took Lucifer with him."

Castiel felt his shoulders ease. Nothing about Sam, he thought, and then wondered a little at his own relief. He was silent for what was apparently a moment too long.

"Is that – right?" She looked hopeful for a moment. "You got out, how did you – did –"

"Dean's dead," Castiel said. "I got lucky." _Or something. _

Jane's eyes dropped, but only for a moment. "You should come back," she said, meeting his eyes directly. "To the camp, I mean. Why you haven't – I don't know, but it doesn't matter. You'd be welcome. No one – blames you, or anything."

He thought of the men who'd come. _You're needed. _Thought of being useful, doing something productive. Not having to look at Sam's expression full of despair, not having to watch him and think of Dean.

Sam was through withdrawal, still alive. Wasn't that enough? There were others in this crumbling world. Innocents. People who hadn't unleashed Lucifer and then let him destroy the world. People who hadn't killed a good man, Castiel's friend, through their negligence and selfishness.

The man he had been sent to guard was dead. The purpose he had come to fulfill was gone.

Why shouldn't he go, serve himself and himself alone, do what he pleased? Why did he need to _do penance _when there was nothing else he could have done?

"Cas?" Jane said again.

_I'll come, _Castiel thought, _I'll go with you. Sam can do whatever the fuck he wants to. Die. I can't care. I'm done with Winchesters._

An opened door. A deliberate wedge. Faith lost and used like a knife.

"I can't," Castiel said. Jane seemed startled.

"What? –why? I told you-"

"It's not about Dean." His name still hurt to utter. Castiel turned away. "I have – I'm taking care of someone. Else."

"They can come with you," Jane said. Castiel almost scoffed.

"No," he said, "They can't."

Jane stared at him, apparently disbelieving. "Why not? They're not well enough to travel? What – so it's just you? That's not safe, and you know it. Maybe I could, or someone could-"

"No," Castiel said firmly. "I'll manage. We'll manage." He straightened deliberately. "I am not helpless. Now if you'll excuse me-" he gestured toward the grocery, "I need supplies." He started to walk away.

"Cas," she said, sharply, suddenly. He paused. "Are you sure?"

Castiel thought of Sam, tea and soup and shared misery. _But not alone. _"Yes," he said, feeling the relief of certainty. "I'm sure. Don't follow me, Jane." He turned and went into the store, felt Jane watching him the whole time.

~.~

Castiel packed as much as he could into his bag before heading back.

It started to rain hard halfway there, and by the time the house was in sight he was soaked. Castiel looked toward the door and breathed out in relief – at least until his breath hitched.

The door was open. _Broken _open.

No, Cas thought, No.

He broke into a run up the porch, the little voice in the back of his head saying _oh, the irony. _He pushed the door all the way open and burst inside.

It was quiet.

He wished fervently for a real weapon – wondered if his sword was still back at the warehouse. Castiel moved gingerly forward, though, called out "Sam?" cautiously. No answer, and Castiel swallowed.

Then, "I'm here."

The former angel moved swiftly toward the living room, and halted in the doorway. There was a man sprawled on the floor with a puddle of blood for a pillow, Sam huddled jammed against the wall, and a rifle between them. Sam's eyes lifted slowly from the dead man to look at Castiel, slightly glazed and unfocused.

"When?" Castiel asked, finally.

"Half an hour ago?" A trickle of blood dribbled out of Sam's nose and one side of his face was already starting to swell where it had probably met the rifle stock. More than that, though – Sam just _looked _battered. Half an hour…almost right after he'd left, then. They were watching the house. Castiel swore.

He looked at the dead man, then knelt next to Sam, who flinched like he was expecting a kick. "So I guess you got the gun away," Castiel said neutrally.

"Yeah, I gu-" Sam cut off and hissed, curling over. Castiel felt a momentary lurch of _shit _before Sam said, "Got my – ribs pretty good." Could be worse, then. Hopefully by ribs he didn't mean lungs. Castiel suspected he was becoming a bit of a fatalist.

Sam's voice came out smooth, but expression belied that. He looked – dazed, almost shell-shocked, and his eyes slid from point to point. Castiel moved between the corpse and Sam's line of sight without really thinking about it. "Did he say anything?"

Sam blinked owlishly at nothing in particular. "Just that he was going to kill me, make sure-" Sam froze, suddenly, and his eyes snapped from 'dazed' to 'a little wild.' He grabbed Castiel's shirt. "He's gone, right? Cas, he's – _he's _really gone, not coming back?"

_Lucifer. _Castiel noted how Sam still couldn't even say the name, rank fear in his eyes. He wondered again what he did and didn't remember, and glanced away. "I have to think so. He would never have abandoned his – left you otherwise."

Sam shuddered. "But what if-"

"What if nothing," Castiel said, almost sharply. "He's gone, and that's it."

Sam's eyes stared through him and the former angel wondered what his companion was seeing. Nothing good, he suspected. It was never anything good. "More will come, right?" Sam said quietly. "More people. To kill me."

Castiel looked at the dead man – no one he knew. "Yes," he said reluctantly. "Probably." Sam made a small choking sound. Castiel sighed.

"Let me check your ribs," he said.

"It's not safe to stay here." Sam drew away. "They knew I was here and when he doesn't come back they'll know I – oh god." His eyes went wide and rounded and he twisted just enough not to vomit on Castiel's shoes. It was thin and mostly bile, and Sam's whole body heaved with the effort. "I shouldn't have killed him," Sam babbled. "Shouldn't have – should have just knocked him out or – all those people, Cas, all those-" His voice cut off as Sam retched again, but nothing came up.

_Fuck, _Castiel thought. "Don't," he said, and his voice came out sharp. "Don't – think. Just don't think." He wondered if Sam could hear the sound of Dean's neck snapping. If he had screamed in his own mind. (Loud enough for God to hear.)

"It's too much," Sam said. "I can't-" His eyes turned to Castiel, pleading. Like Castiel could actually do anything, and he felt his helplessness all over again.

"Stop," he said, and then again, more loudly, "_stop._ Who does this help? It's useless. I need you to work with me."

"There's nothing I can do for you," Sam said, almost whispered. "For anyone."

Castiel wanted to hit him. Wanted to lash out in fury and frustration. "You're dragging us both down," he hissed. "Is that what you want?"

Sam's head drooped further. "No. I don't – no."

"Then you need to listen to me," Castiel growled. "You need to stay sane. You need to keep it together and focus on the present. You don't have _time _to fall apart, not unless you want to die. And not even then. So-"

"Then tell me-" Sam's grip found his shirt again after sliding loose earlier. "_Tell me what to do._" His voice was full of anguish and desperation. Castiel swallowed.

"It's not my duty to tell you what to do."

Sam looked up. "Someone has to," he said hoarsely, and Castiel looked away.

Sam didn't trust himself. Someone had to. There wasn't anyone else.

Castiel looked down at the gun on the floor. He reached out and picked it up, checked the ammunition. Then he extended it to Sam. "Take it," he said. Sam hesitated. "Take it," he said with more vehemence. Sam slowly reached out and took it. Castiel nodded.

"Get up," he said. "It's time we moved on."

Sam blinked, a little owlish. "To where?" he asked. Castiel turned toward the broken door and shrugged. The bird was still singing outside, joyful and throaty, even through the rain.

"I don't know," he said. "Anywhere but here."


	4. Chapter 4

The car still worked, so they drove.

The roads were miserably bumpy to say the least, but they were there, for the most part. They had to turn around several times when they met dead ends, deep cracks in the pavement, lanes clogged by abandoned vehicles, but once they were out of what was left of Kansas City, the going was actually better.

More potholes, but fewer cars, anyway.

Castiel let Sam drive, though he seemed reluctant to do anything. "What if I forget how?" he'd said. "It's been…"

"You have something to forget," Castiel said. "I've had two driving lessons, ever. I think you'll still be better than me."

They didn't look for a map. Things had changed enough that it would be next to useless anyway. And they weren't going anywhere in particular.

Sam hadn't said anything, but Castiel got the feeling he wanted a destination. Wanted a purpose, maybe. Castiel thought that was just too bad. He'd been living without a purpose for some time now. Perhaps he could use some company.

It wasn't as ugly, Castiel thought, as it could have been. Out of the city the air was cleaner, less fouled by demonic influence. It still stank to Castiel's nose, but less. There was grass springing up through the pavement, persisting against all odds. No life, but growing things still found a way.

It had a kind of beauty. A stark, bleak sort of beauty, but it was beauty nonetheless.

Sam's eyes stayed fixed ahead, his hands clamped on the wheel as he drove. The silence wasn't unpleasant, but he felt a need to break it anyway.

"No one is judging you for killing that man," he said, and didn't realize until he'd said it that it was a) true and b) important. Sam's gaze slid briefly sideways, then snapped just as swiftly back to the road.

"I am."

"Do you think anyone cares? He would have killed you."

"He had the right to."

Castiel's teeth ground together. He looked out the window and fell silent. After a while, he simply said, "I disagree," and shut his mouth like a trap. He wondered briefly if this had been a wise choice, and dismissed the thought.

None of his choices lately had been wise. He would find a way to make this one work as well as had the others.

_That is to say, not at all, _said a voice in his head Castiel suspected he'd inherited from his previous charge.

They drove in silence for a while, the car bumping and jolting on the roads. Castiel watched the landscape slip by.

"You don't have to do that, you know," Sam said, finally. His eyes were fixed so determinedly forward Castiel suspected he was seeing anything but the road.

"I don't want to have this conversation," Castiel said bluntly.

"Neither do I," Sam said, and there was something tight in his voice. His hands, Castiel noted, twisted on the steering wheel. "But I'm telling you. You don't need to – feel obligated, or whatever. To fix me, or-"

"I wouldn't dare," Castiel said, surprising himself with the caustic note in his own voice. "Presume to do anything of the kind."

Silence, again. Castiel wondered if perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. He wasn't sure there was a right way to go about it. "Right," Sam said at last. "Yeah. Got it."

Castiel doubted that, but he simply nodded. They weren't, he suspected, going to make more progress than that.

~.~

Castiel didn't realize that he had fallen asleep until he woke up with a start, flailing gracelessly against his seatbelt. Sam glanced over at him. "You okay?" He asked. Castiel found himself breathing fast and tried to remember if he'd been dreaming, but nothing came.

"Fine," he said. Sam was still driving, though it was dark now. Half the road was illuminated, but not the other half.

"One headlight out," said Sam. "If there were still cops I'd get pulled over."

"Good thing there aren't still cops, then," Castiel said, and Sam glanced sharply over at him, but only for a moment. Then his eyes were back on the road.

"Where are we going, Cas?" He said, after a long silence. Castiel shrugged.

"I don't know."

Sam turned his head again. He sounded incredulous. "You don't _know_?"

"Does it matter where we go?" Castiel asked quietly. "Things will change little from place to place, I imagine." He watched Sam's hands tighten minutely on the wheel.

"I just think we should have a destination," Sam said, a stubborn note sidling into his voice. Cas nearly liked that tone. It was better than blank hopelessness or uncertainty, by his estimation.

"Is there somewhere _you _want to go?" he asked, and realized at once it was the wrong question when Sam stuttered for a second before answering, opening his mouth and closing it. His shoulders slumped.

"No," Sam said. "Maybe. I don't know. It was just a…question." Maybe if we had somewhere we were going, you wouldn't feel so lost, Castiel almost said, is that what it is? He could have told Sam differently. When you were lost, you were lost. Going somewhere else didn't make it any different. "Where would be…safe?"

"For you?" Castiel shrugged. "Anybody's guess. Perhaps nowhere."

Silence, then Sam made a bitter sound that might have been an attempt at a laugh. "You've really got that brutal honesty thing going for you, haven't you?"

Castiel shrugged. "I see no point in lying about something we both understand."

Sam shrugged one shoulder. "Sometimes it's nice to pretend." Castiel didn't see the point in answering that. The car jumped on a pothole and Sam sidled over to avoid a stalled minivan. This time the silence was even longer, and even more uncomfortable. Castiel closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window, hoping to sleep.

"What are you going to do, Cas?" Sam asked, suddenly. Castiel opened one eye, feeling weariness swamp him. It angered him, to hear Sam ask the question he'd been asking himself for weeks with no answer.

"I don't know," he said simply, and hoped the curt tone would ward Sam off. He fell silent, and Castiel relaxed, relieved. The next question came as more of a surprise.

"Do you think there are still angels on earth?" Castiel started.

"Why?"

"Maybe one of them knows what happened," Sam said, sounding almost hopeful. "Could tell us more…" Castiel marveled that Sam could still suggest it, after the year leading to Lucifer's rise alone. Desperation, he reminded himself.

"They would kill both of us on sight," Castiel reminded Sam, "On principle, if nothing more."

Sam subsided. "Oh right," he said after a moment, a heavy note in his voice. "Yeah." Another silence, and then abruptly he laughed. "You know, it's almost funny. Is there anyone who _doesn't _hate me? Angels, demons, people – at least they agree on something, right? That's what world peace looks like." The former angel didn't respond, only looked away. He didn't have an answer. Sam made that strange coughing noise again, the one that was supposed to be a laugh. "I'm so dead," he said, and Castiel breathed out through his nose.

"I will watch out for you," he said, finally. "I am still a guardian, I think. If no longer an angel."

There was a brief pause. Castiel watched Sam's hands tighten on the wheel, then relax. "That's fine," he said, eventually. "Pretty sure I could do without angels for a while."

Castiel made himself smile, even if it wasn't really a joke.

~.~

They pulled over to the side of the road midway through the night to rest. Castiel surprised himself in that he fell asleep at all. He dreamed an old dream, nothing but a memory now. Lucifer's voice was musical; his true voice, not filtered through Sam's. "You can feel your power fading, little brother," he said, "Come to me. I would welcome you, and return it. They had no right to take it away."

He remembered that. Remembered snarling _no _with all the defiance he could summon, still fresh and full of fire and belief. Before that was all gone.

Now, he woke up to Sam's soft and muffled cries. He twisted in the seat, head moving back and forth, his eyes squeezed closed like he was trying not to see something. "No," he mumbled. "Not – true. S'not – true."

Castiel sighed and reached out, nudged his companion's shoulder. Sam snapped awake with a gasp and looked wildly around. His eyes caught Castiel's face and for a moment his expression went blank with hope and wavering disbelief.

Then it was gone, and Sam very nearly slumped. "Sorry," he said, under his breath.

Castiel wondered if he ought to apologize for not being Dean. Then again, he could ask the same from Sam, if it came down to that. "You were dreaming," he said instead, neutrally. "I thought it best…"

"Did I wake you up?" Sam rubbed his eyes with one hand. He looked worn out and worn down, his face too thin and eyes hollow. Castiel wondered if he looked anything the same.

"No," he lied. "I wasn't sleeping well."

Sam looked at the steering wheel for a moment, and then fell back limply. "Yeah," he said, finally, and then asked, "Do you dream now, then?"

"Yes," Castiel said. "Like all humans." He was surprised by the bitterness in his own voice. He'd thought he'd had that under control. Perhaps not. Sam didn't flinch, just sighed again.

"Hope you at least get some good dreams out of it," he said, finally, and straightened up again, stretching his shoulders in the limited space. "Should we just keep driving?"

_You should sleep, _Castiel thought about saying. He wished, abruptly, that he could still give Sam dreamless, oblivion-like sleep that he once could have given with a thought. He was even more surprised to discover the desire was solely because he didn't want Sam to continue to suffer, not now.

Enough wasn't enough – enough would never be enough – but it wouldn't help anyone now, not Sam, not Castiel, not Dean, not the world. It just didn't matter, and Sam was the only thing he had left.

That meant something. So did the compassion Lucifer's erstwhile vessel had shown.

But he knew that sleep would only bring dreams, and he didn't want to return to his own haunted nightmares. "Let's go," he said. "I don't think either of us will sleep now."

Will either of us ever sleep again? He wondered privately, but said nothing, and Sam just nodded and started the car. The engine started and then ran smoothly.

"Hey Cas," Sam said abruptly. "Do you ever regret it? Rebelling, I mean. Going with Dean."

The question took him by surprise. Castiel hesitated a long time. _No, _he wanted to say. Would have said, just a year ago. _No, never. It was right. _

But what had he done, in the end? "I don't know," he said, and Sam nodded slowly. Then he made another one of those small sounds that tried to be a laugh.

"I asked him once," Sam said, and Castiel didn't need to ask who _he _was. The one Sam didn't name. "About…that. Before…things. He said he always thought Michael would take his side."

Castiel blinked, once. Carefully, he asked, "Did you talk to him often?"

Sam shrugged. "He visited my dreams every night," he said, softly, in a strange voice. "Eventually, I just…it's not like I had anyone else to talk to."

"Is that why you said yes?" Castiel asked, and cringed the moment the words were out. He watched Sam's hands. They didn't tighten, so he glanced up at Sam's face. It had gone completely blank and still.

"No," he said, finally. "—yes. No. Maybe." He took a deep breath, and it sounded shuddery, like he was about to break. Castiel's gut twisted. "I was just – lonely, and he kept saying that it was okay, that it was all going to end, and I got so _tired…_" Sam's eyes closed, just for a moment, and Castiel looked anxiously at the road, but it was only a moment. "I guess I just thought…_at least this way it'll be over, all the fighting will be over._"

Castiel didn't know what to say. Sam laughed mirthlessly. "Pretty damn pathetic, huh?"

"No," said Castiel, and surprised himself again by believing it. "No…Lucifer convinced half the heavenly host to stand with him, and they were not human or alone."

"Dean would still be alive if I'd said no," Sam said, his voice hardening, but Castiel knew the edge was not being wielded against him.

He felt bad, but the former angel couldn't disagree with that assessment.

~.~

The car broke down just as the sun reached its zenith. The engine sputtered, then stalled, and it coasted slowly to a stop. Sam pulled his hands off the wheel and sighed heavily.

"What's the matter?" Castiel asked. Sam shook his head.

"Dunno. Maybe the battery's run out, or maybe something else. I don't know enough about cars to tell. Besides, not like there's any spare parts, or much we can do to fix it." He fell silent, and Castiel wondered what he was thinking about, and decided that it was probably better, like in most cases, not to know.

"So what do we do now?"

"Walk, I guess," Sam said, after a moment. "Unless you have another idea. Hope we find somewhere we can stay at least for a night. We have bags, right, things to pack stuff along in?"

"What we have, yes," Castiel allowed. "It isn't much of an effort to carry. Most of it's food."

Sam's shoulder lifted, then fell. "That's kind of the important stuff." Sam slumped for a moment longer, then seemed to straighten deliberately, turning toward Cas. "You ready?"

Sam seemed to be, Castiel observed, more alive now. Going so far as to suggest things, rather than drifting. That seemed to him to be a good sign, and it was certainly helpful. "I'm ready," Castiel said, and got out of the car.

The air felt different here. Drier, hotter, and somehow – cleaner, even as a cloud of dust stirred up from the road drifted into the former angel's nose. "Where are we?" he asked. The signs were mostly gone, or obscured, and he hadn't seen one for some time.

"Your guess's as good as mine," Sam said. "I'm not even sure which way we were going to start with."

"Southeast," Castiel said, and Sam blinked at him. The former angel glanced away. "It is one of the things that remains to me. I have a very good sense of direction."

"Handy," Sam said after a moment, and sounded like he meant it. "So – which way, do you think?"

Castiel looked up along the road, unchanging, and at the right and left, which might have been fields of crops once but just looked like overgrown thicket and grass now. "Right," he said, finally, and Sam shrugged.

"Fine by me. You think there's something out there?"

"I don't have a good feeling about it, if that's what you mean," Castiel said dryly. "It was just a guess."

"Again," Sam said, "Your guess is as good as mine. Probably better." His mouth twisted slightly, like he was going to say more, and Castiel as good as saw the relaxation and relatively pleasant mood go out of him. "Never mind. Let's just go."

Sam started off. Castiel looked at his back for a moment as it moved into the knee-high grasses and then followed.

~.~

There was a house.

They stumbled upon it around dusk. The birds had gone quiet and the only sound now was the soft rush of the wind stirring the grasses and bristling through the brambles.

It was an abandoned farm cabin, the roof bowed and probably leaky and the porch rotting in places, but it was a house, and somehow they'd managed to come in exactly the right direction to find it. Castiel stared in very slight disbelief and said, "Will you look at that."

"Yeah," Sam said, a little more quietly. "What are the odds."

Castiel looked sideways at him, took a moment to try to read and interpret his mood, and gave up, starting toward the house. "We can at least stay here for a night," he declared, "Or two, and see how things look later."

Sam fidgeted, and held back. "It's pretty – uh. Open, isn't it?"

"It's fine," Castiel said, firmly. "It's safe. At least for now. We'll see anyone coming long before they get here." It was false comfort, largely, but they needed to rest, and Castiel doubted they would find anywhere better. "Come inside," he said, "I'm hungry."

"Hungry," said Sam. "Right. Yeah." But he followed Castiel in.

The former angel's mood felt better than it had for a long time, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the quality of the air, or the fact that they'd managed to find a shelter despite all of the odds. Maybe it was just the feeling of moving again, not being confined. He didn't know and didn't, in the end, really care.

It probably wouldn't last long. He would try to enjoy it while he could.

Sam drifted away once they got inside, wandering right while Castiel went left, setting his baggage down next to the front table, coated with dust. There was a picture on it and Castiel picked it up, wiped the dust away and looked at a faded portrait of a smiling family.

He wondered where they had gone. If they had died here, their blood soaking into the wood floor.

His good mood evaporated. He set the frame face down and picked up Sam's bags, moved them toward the stairs.

Sam reappeared a moment later. "There's a cellar," he said, an odd note in his voice. "Smells like something died down there. I didn't go down."

"Keep it closed," Castiel said, "And don't."

Sam just nodded, once, and then glanced at the bags. "I can make dinner, if you want," he said, abruptly, and Castiel blinked. Sam didn't really make food. Well, sometimes. But it stood to reason, given how little he actually ate.

For a moment, he was almost touched at the offer. "Go ahead," he said. "Make enough for yourself. I think you should eat something."

It was the most he'd said on the subject since asking if Sam was trying to starve himself, and he hadn't even meant to say it. But then a smile ghosted around Sam's mouth, or at least something that was trying to be a smile, and he said, "Maybe I will."

Castiel counted it a victory.

While Sam cooked, he explored the rest of the house. The upstairs was dusty and abandoned. He found several more pictures, all of the same family. In one of the rooms, there were two beds and the picture on the nightstand was of a pair of girls, one blond and one brunette. The blond reminded him of Claire.

For reasons he couldn't have explained, Castiel took the picture out of the frame and tucked it in his pocket.

The condition of the house itself wasn't actually so bad as it could have been. It wasn't falling apart yet, anyway. It creaked and groaned, but most of it still seemed to be intact, and until it rained Castiel couldn't find any obvious leaks. Hopefully it wouldn't rain.

Looking out of one of the grimy, half broken windows at the grass, Castiel thought of the house they'd left behind, and the grave behind it with Dean Winchester's body. The sun had set, but there was still a purple light in the sky, and it was toward it that Castiel looked and tried once again what he'd thought he'd never do.

_Please, Father, bring Dean back. Let him see this. _The wind picked up and blew in through the broken window. It smelled like hay and sweet grass, and for a moment, just a moment, he felt that God was listening.

"Cas!" called Sam's voice from downstairs. "Dinner's ready."

Castiel looked at the two beds, the covers rotted, and felt the picture in his pocket, and the feeling of wonder was gone. "I wonder if you're still alive," he asked the room, and turned to go downstairs, his mood fading back to black.

Sam had made two packages of the dried noodles that seemed to last forever and cut up some of the sour, small apples they'd carried from the house that was Dean's grave. He looked momentarily sheepish. "Sorry it's not exactly gourmet," he said. "I was never the cook that-"

He stopped, and the sheepish look faded, replaced by nothing. He'd slipped again, Castiel realized, forgotten. After a moment, Sam sat down and picked up his spoon, stirred the cup of noodles while staring at it like it held the solution to his problems.

Castiel sat down a moment later and began to eat his. He watched Sam until he started eating and breathed out quietly when he did.

~.~

Neither of them wanted to sleep upstairs, in the rooms that had been abandoned. Sam promptly claimed the floor, leaving Castiel the couch, or what was left of it. Castiel wished there was a way he could point out that sleeping on the floor was not making up for the destruction Lucifer had caused via his acquiescence, but he suspected it would not be wise.

And he appreciated the couch.

Castiel fell asleep more quickly than he'd expected and slept more soundly than he'd hoped. And woke up midway through the night to Sam's hand over his mouth, the whites of his eyes luminous in the dark. He looked scared. He looked _terrified. _

Castiel nodded to show his understanding and Sam pulled back quickly. "There's people coming," he said lowly. Castiel could see his tension, in his shoulders, in the tight and jerky way he was moving like a cornered animal. "I just went out to – I couldn't sleep. More than a few. I saw them. Coming."

"Demons?" Castiel asked on the same tone, watching Sam – worriedly. He looked like he wanted to bolt, and Castiel wasn't sure he wouldn't. Sam shook his head minutely after a moment.

"No," he said, "No. Cas, what do I – what if they-"

"Just stay back," Castiel said, but his stomach knotted. "Just don't-"

"I should go," Sam said, cutting him off. "I should – just get out, I don't want you to-"

"Shut up," Cas snapped, "And stay where you are. Maybe they don't know anything. Maybe…"

Sam slipped further back into the dark. Castiel forced his eyes wide, trying to see, and moved forward toward the windows.

A heavy knock fell on the door. "Whoever's there," said a rough voice, "Open up!" Sam made a soft and muffled noise, and Castiel was suddenly angry. He jerked the door open and said in his most belligerent (Dean-like) voice, "What do you want?"

The man behind the door, his fist raised apparently to knock again, jerked a little in surprise. Behind him, guns lifted to point at Castiel's face. He ignored them. "Christo," said the man, after a moment. Castiel was glad Sam was out of sight. He wasn't certain the younger Winchester wouldn't have flinched, if for all the wrong reasons.

"Same to you," Castiel snapped. "I'll ask you again. What do you want?"

The man's lips pressed together. "Where're you from?"

"Somewhere else. You didn't answer my question."

The frown deepened. "There two of you in there?"

"My friend is sleeping," Castiel said without thinking, before Sam could make a sound. Their guns hadn't budged and they didn't know yet whether this group knew…anything. "Talk to me. Who are you?"

The man shifted. Grudgingly, he said, "Refugees. Survivors. We have a camp…this place has been a hideout for demons before. One of our scouts saw you come in."

Castiel might have hesitated, once, but now it was only truth to say, "We're just the same as you. Looking for someplace to shelter."

The man hesitated. "Your companion," he said, finally. "Is he sick?"

Castiel hesitated. "No," he said, finally. And almost changed his answer. Instead he said, "Lower your guns. I'll get him."

The others looked to the man who must have been a leader of some kind. He nodded, barely, and the guns lowered. They were still cocked and primed, and if they took one look at Sam and saw Lucifer's face they were still both screwed, but…

Castiel wasn't seeing a whole lot of options.

He closed the door and retreated. Sam was holding perfectly still just a few feet from the door. "I heard," he said in a hushed voice. "There's no way to tell, is there?"

"If they'll recognize you? No." Castiel paused, and then said, slowly, "We can send them away. But it would be better not to. They have supplies, and there's some safety in numbers. Even if it's only for a little while."

Sam said something under his breath that Castiel didn't hear, but it didn't sound pleasant. Then he looked up. "Okay," he said, "I'll – go see if they start shooting or not. They do, though – you didn't know, okay? And don't try to – get in the way or something."

Castiel let his mouth tighten and didn't respond. Sam squared his shoulders and moved forward like a man going to his execution, which Castiel supposed in fairness he might be. He paused only a moment before opening the door. Castiel moved forward, prepared to move the moment there was a sound, but no one shouted, no one screamed.

After a moment, Sam mumbled, "Hey," sounding almost confused. Castiel shouldered in beside him. The leader looked back and forth between them and finally nodded.

"Fine," he said, "You can come back with us. You have any supplies of your own?"

"Some," Castiel said, since Sam just seemed inclined to stare, seeming vaguely lost. That was almost disconcerting for some reason, but he couldn't pin down why.

"Good. Your names?" Castiel hesitated, wondering if names would be safe, but finally decided that he didn't have the energy to tell or remember a lie. It probably wasn't worth the effort.

"Castiel," he said, "I'm Castiel. This is Sam. Thank you for your generosity."

"Don't thank me yet," grunted the man. "You'll be pulling your own weight still. Bring whatever you have and anything else you can carry, but not too much outta here. It makes a good trap."

Trap, Castiel thought, but simply nodded. "Understood," he said. "We won't be long."

He pulled Sam back inside when Sam didn't look like he would step back, and looked around the house once again. There wasn't much. Their stuff was still mostly packed as they'd had it before, and Sam shook himself and seemed to come alert again.

"Crazy," he said, under his breath, and Castiel wondered if he meant the people, or the fact that they didn't know him. Either way, he didn't sound as pleased as he might have, just confused.

He didn't think on that, just gathered the food that they had unpacked and shoved the blanket he'd covered himself with the previous night back in the bag. Sam didn't have to repack anything; by the time Castiel had straightened, he had his bags over his shoulder and was hovering near the door.

"You think this'll be okay?" Sam said quietly, his back to the people waiting now down in the grass. Castiel hesitated, and wasn't sure if he was lying or not when he said, "I think it will be."

It was better than, more than what they had. What could be wrong with that?

~.~

They walked in eerie silence. It wasn't altogether unpleasant, but it was strange, for a group of ten people, all armed except for Castiel and Sam in the middle. Sam seemed far away, Castiel observed, thinking about something. His expression was unreadable, though. That almost made him nervous, but he decided there was probably not cause for it.

It was just thinking. No matter how dark Sam's thoughts might be, that was all it was.

It wasn't so far from the house that he began to hear the sounds of voices and more people, perhaps no more than three miles. He wondered that they were still unscathed, so close to the road, and to a house that they admitted had sheltered demons.

The grass had been burned away in a clearing. Castiel had seen refugee camps before in the apocalypse, and this looked much like the others, but for one thing – the people seemed cleaner, and some of them were smiling.

Perhaps, he wondered, word had spread, that the end of the world had ended. That would be cause to smile, for most.

Castiel watched a gaggle of children run across their path, one pausing to gawk at him and Sam. He felt Sam tense beside him, wondering if the younger Winchester was waiting for the child to point and cry _Lucifer, Lucifer. _

The child ran on, though. "It doesn't look so bad," he said quietly, to Sam, and was rewarded by a very slight smile. It looked strained and potentially false, but it was still there.

"No," said Sam, "Could definitely be worse."

Things seemed to pass in a blur. The leader of the party introduced them to a woman, who passed them on to another man, who showed them around the camp – the latrines, the kitchens or what passed for them, and finally a tent that they were to share with another woman and her husband.

It was only after their guide had gone that Castiel looked at Sam and realized that he was no longer just tense, he was rigid, and trembling ever so slightly. The woman was looking at him nervously, and Castiel glowered at her without thinking before drawing Sam out of sight.

"I can't," Sam said, low and quiet and urgently. "I can't stay with – all these people. I thought it'd be – but I can't. I-"

"Why not," Castiel asked, cutting him off, feeling a surge of annoyance. "Why can't you?"

Sam's eyes turned on him fully and Castiel looked at them, and realized they weren't hollow anymore, as they had been. Now they were open wounds. "These people had houses," he said. "They had homes and jobs and lives. And now they have this, and to just – look at all of this and know it's what _I-_"

"No," said Castiel, "Not you."

He wasn't sure if he or Sam were more surprised. Castiel swallowed hard, and made himself continue. "—Lucifer did this. Perhaps you…but this wasn't you."

"Cas," said Sam, sounding pained, and the former angel felt again the snap of conviction that he had in the parking lot that had led him to return.

"No," he said again. "I know…I know the difference between an angel and his vessel. And I know…I can blame you for saying yes. But for what happened after that?"

Sam's voice dropped to a whisper. "I remember it," he said. "I remember-"

"If he hadn't wanted you to," Castiel said, "You wouldn't."

Sam fell quiet. There was something strange in his expression, but finally, he said, "Thanks, Cas. I'm – sorry. You know."

"Yes," said Castiel, "I know," because he did, and Sam's head dropped. He looked tired, Castiel thought. So tired.

"We'll stay here," he said, after a moment. "It'll be fine. And it really isn't so bad." Sam nodded, barely. It wasn't the ringing endorsement he'd have preferred, but it was something.

They went back to the tent, where the woman made them dinner and they drank too much alcohol together. Castiel thought he might have even seen Sam smile.

~.~

Castiel woke with a headache like he hadn't had since going through withdrawal or whatever it had been after Lucifer's mysterious end. He rubbed his eyes, unable to help a groan slipping through his lips, and sat up very slowly, squinting to the space next to him. It was empty, Sam already awake and gone.

If he'd slept at all. Castiel shook that thought off and clambered awkwardly out of the tent, shading his eyes in an attempt to protect them. The camp still looked asleep, a few people stirring but not many.

He set off without really thinking about it to find Sam.

And didn't.

He wasn't lurking around the campgrounds. He wasn't back by the tent. It seemed that no one had seen him since the middle of the night before. One of the women shrugged in the face of his growing worry.

"Maybe he left," she said casually, and Castiel's stomach squirmed.

Sam had been quiet. Quiet and withdrawn and – who knew what else? And there was the look in his eyes, and the conversation they'd had the night before…

The feeling of worry was so intense and sudden that it was almost overwhelming, and certainly confusing. Sam was just – gone.

He went over the whole camp once more before he finally stopped and faced that Sam had disappeared. Lucifer's vessel, wanted dead by every population of demons, hunters, and humans that knew his name and most that didn't. And he was gone.

_By now, _said the cynical voice that kept him company too often these days, _He's probably dead. Or being tortured in extremis. What a guardian you are. _

_What a failure. _

The worse thought, though, was that nothing had happened at all, that Sam had just gone. Decided that enough was enough and walked away, or that since there were other people now his company was no longer needed, and Castiel wondered if that was what had been occupying his thoughts on the walk to this camp, _well, now that these people are here…_

That thought made him want to scream and rage, and it saddened him at the same time.

He circled, but there was nothing. Prowled around the outer edges of the camp, in case Sam had wandered out and would come back any minute. In case…

The day passed slowly with no word and only Castiel's headache to keep him company. A few people tried to speak to him, and he snapped at them until they went away, watching the horizon.

It was midnight when he saw the disturbance out in the grasses. He started at it in blank incomprehension for a while until a walking figure, a staggering figure, came into sharp resolve. Then he straightened, taking a desperate, hopeful step forward.

And froze.

_Ah, _he thought, _irony is sweet. _

He knew that slightly bow-legged walk, that silhouette, even the way he overcompensated when he wobbled. Knew the color of the eyes that had found him and were now staring in confused disbelief.

"Cas?" Dean said. "What the fuck?"

And after weeks of waiting, of wondering, of asking, Castiel didn't understand why his first thought was _Sam, what did you do? _

"Christo," Castiel said, just in case, but Dean blinked at him, seeming dazed.

"Bless you," he said, and looked Cas up and down. "You…changed. Shaved. Are you _sober?_"

"Yes," Castiel said, remembering Jane, asking the same question.

The next question was even less of a surprise. Dean appeared to be patting his pockets, perhaps just exploring the solidity of his own body. "How am I alive?"

Castiel wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh and choke and scream, all at once. "The will of heaven," he said simply, and could feel himself starting to shake. Wasn't this perfect. Wasn't this just fucking _perfect. _

Dean looked up blurrily and squinted. "Okay," he said, "You've gone off the deep end."

"You were dead," Castiel said. "You were never coming back. I buried you, and I waited."

Dean rubbed his forehead and didn't seem too surprised. "Lucifer's…"

"Gone," Castiel said, and it was right there on the tip of his tongue. _Sam was alive. I've lost him. I hope you're still indifferent, because I'm not. _"Apparently…apparently for good."

"Good," said Dean, "Good."

He didn't ask about Sam. Somehow that was worse than if he had. Castiel looked out at the flat plains around them extending into the horizon and wondered if he could do something differently.

If Sam was coming back. If Dean was going to be better.

If there was anything left of Castiel who had been an angel at all.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: I don't have anything planned for after this. Now, keep in mind I didn't have anything planned after the first chapter either... but yes._

Dean was ravenous. He tore into the food Castiel found for him with gusto and desperation, like it might be taken away if he delayed even a moment. Castiel stayed standing, watched him eat and wondered.

_A trade? Is that what it was? One but not the other? _

_You sick bastard, _Castiel thought, and wondered if it was unfair to assume this wasn't simply Sam taking off. He couldn't be sure, after all. "What do you remember?" He asked, finally. Dean glanced up from licking something off his fingers, brow wrinkling a little.

"—you expecting me to have amnesia or something?"

"No," Castiel said, then paused. "Maybe. Do you remember anything after you died?" He kept the question blunt and specific on purpose. Dean didn't even blink. He could picture the way Sam would have flinched, and then wondered why he bothered to.

"No," the older Winchester said. "Nothing. Just a blank, and then – here. What's going on?"

Castiel swallowed, and looked away. Finally, he said, "Lucifer seems to be gone. Dead or returned to the cage, I don't know."

Dean's head snapped around. "What?" He sounded incredulous, disbelieving, but Castiel didn't blame him. "Did Michael-"

"God," Castiel said, after a moment. "I think. I don't know who else…"

Could pry an archangel out of his vessel while leaving the vessel mostly unharmed. Castiel cut off the rest of his sentence and looked at the camp. Two women were standing close together, murmuring to each other. He couldn't hear them from here.

Dean pushed his plate away, abruptly. "What, so it's just – over? Everything looks the same."

"Nothing else has changed," Castiel said, simply. "The worst seems to be dissipating, though. The Croats were…destroyed by whatever – whoever – finished Lucifer."

"Nice of them," Dean muttered. "Took their damn sweet time, didn't they?" He rolled his shoulders back, expression darkening. "And you? How'd you…"

He looked abruptly ashamed.

"Survive?" Castiel let his voice become caustic. "Apparently someone thought I was worth saving. None of the others are alive."

Dean opened his mouth, and then closed it. He rubbed a hand over his face and looked away, seeming uncomfortable. "…sorry," he said, finally, very lowly. Castiel shrugged.

"I'm still alive. Don't bother."

Silence fell between them. Dean glanced up, finally. "You didn't…go back to the Camp? Why? Where are we now, how'd you get here?"

"I drove," Castiel said, answering the last question first.

"You can drive?" Dean said. Castiel ignored him. "I don't know where we are, exactly," he continued. "And I didn't go back because…" he trailed off. _Because they would have killed your brother and for some reason I was trying to take care of him, and did such a great job at that, too. _"…just would have been strange," he said, finally, making up an answer. "After everyone else died. Including you."

"Kind of begs the question," Dean said, after a moment. "If I'm…um, buried, back wherever, how did I get here?"

Castiel just shrugged. He found himself picturing Sam, wondering what he would be doing now. Wondering how Dean would react if he knew, or if Sam came back this instant. Dean swallowed audibly and picked up the fork again like he was going to eat something, then set it down with a clatter.

"So," Dean said, finally, "Lucifer's really gone, yeah?"

"So it would seem."

"Yeah," Dean said, and then his mouth twisted. "Good. Bastard. I think I'm going to go take a nap. You got somewhere to sleep?"

Sam's things. Still sitting in the tent, alongside his own. "No," he lied, "Not yet. It's pretty crowded here." Dean nodded, a little bit curtly.

"I'll find somewhere," he said, with assurance, and paused. Then he reached out and awkwardly clapped Castiel on the shoulder. "I'm – glad you're still here. Good to know someone, still."

_Other than the ones you sent to their deaths for real? _Castiel thought, but didn't say. He found a thin smile. "Sleep well, Dean."

"Doubt it," Dean grunted, but he walked away, hands in his pockets. Castiel watched him go, very still, and wondered if the worm twisting in his stomach was anger or guilt that neither of them had mentioned Sam so much as once.

~.~

No one seemed surprised that Castiel's companion had vanished. More accurately, none of them seemed to notice. It probably helped that Dean blended in better than Castiel could ever hope to, and better than he ever wanted to. Dean seemed…better.

He spoke with people conversationally, his hands in his pockets and posture almost loose. He charmed his way into a tent for just the two of them, and when it worked, shot Castiel a grin that shook the former angel down to his feet. It was like being back with the man he'd once known, on his good days. Not whole, but not shattered or crumpled either, and still able to smile.

It made him want to look away. It didn't seem right. Or fair.

But then, nothing was.

He spent the day hanging back and watching Dean, when he wasn't out on the edges of the camp, watching the grass. Walking a little ways out, in case Sam had passed out somewhere close by. Something. Anything.

Dean caught him at it just after the sun was starting to fall from its peak, swishing up through the glass to stand next to him.

"Thinking about something?"

Castiel half turned. The grin was gone. Dean looked – halfway between anxious and worried. It wasn't an expression he expected, nor one he was familiar with, particularly. "No," he lied, the corners of his mouth turning down slightly. Dean's hands were in his pockets and he fidgeted.

"You pissed at me, Cas?"

Castiel hesitated. _Yes. No. _"I don't know," he said, honestly. "Not for sending me to die. I understand."

Dean seemed surprised by that. "About what, then?"

Castiel hesitated. "I'm not angry at you," he said, finally, because he could not possibly explain the real reason for it. _Coward. _

_Well, yes, _he thought with no amusement. Dean shifted slightly. He didn't seem comfortable.

"You seem different," Dean said, finally. Castiel shrugged.

"So do you." Dean glanced at him, seeming ever so slightly surprised.

"How so?"

"Less broken, for one thing," Castiel said bluntly, and did _not _take a brief and slightly savage pleasure in Dean's flinch. The other man cleared his throat audibly and shifted again.

"Well. End of the world's over. That helps."

"I suppose it does," Castiel allowed, without feeling. Dean glanced at him oddly.

"What was…left, after everything went down, and god or whoever – took care of Lucifer?"

"A lot of Croat bodies," Castiel said dryly. He had a feeling that wasn't what Dean was asking. "You," he added. _And Sam. He was alive, though I didn't know it at the time. I could have left him there then, but I was thinking of you. _

"So no…blast crater?" Dean said, and Castiel thought, _coward. Just ask. _

"No, nothing like that," Castiel said, and thought _coward, just tell. _Dean nodded.

"Good," he said. "Good." They both looked out in silence at the horizon. Castiel thought of the purple sunset he'd prayed to, and wondered if God was laughing somewhere at his little ex-angel's folly. He smiled a small and bitter smile to himself. Dean didn't seem to notice, his gaze fixed on some other distant point.

They continued to dance around Sam for a couple days, Dean edging nearer to the topic and then backing away, and Castiel avoiding it altogether. And there was still no sign of him. Not a trace. No one in the camp, he learned at night when he could ask safely, had seen him go.

It wasn't until three days after Dean's resurrection, as Castiel stood on the edge of the camp again and pondered leaving, wondered if Sam had gone somewhere and couldn't find his way back, or was imprisoned somewhere a rescue might be possible. Dean came up to him on quiet feet. His hands did a small fidget, and he looked at them.

"Did you…did you bury Sam too?"

Castiel thought he was going to choke. For a moment, he wanted to. And then he was too busy trying to get his heart to unclench so he could talk properly. Finally, he said hoarsely, "I did what I thought you'd have wanted."

_Oh, you liar. Why can't you just say it? What can he do? What does it even matter?_

"Not so sure what that is anymore, Cas," Dean said, but he nodded, just once, and seemed satisfied.

Castiel's gut continued to churn, and that night he slept restlessly, his dreams haunted with a pale faced Sam covered in his own blood offering him soup in wide-eyed silence. He woke up and stared at the roof of their tent. _I should go, _he thought. _Find some excuse and at least look, at least…_

_He would look for you, _a snide voice reminded Castiel. Just when he thought he could not feel any more poorly.

Next to him, Dean was sleeping soundly, untroubled by nightmares. Just for a moment, Castiel hated him.

~.~

Their fragile illusion broke all too soon.

He shouldn't have spoken to the other members of the camp. Shouldn't have let them remember that someone else had been there.

Castiel was pacing around the perimeter of the camp, debating with himself, when Dean caught up with him. Something in his face was a warning, but Castiel just saw smooth and even. Was distracted by his own thoughts.

"You know," Dean said conversationally, "I was talking to Abigail and she told me the most interesting thing."

"Hmm," said Castiel, looking out at the horizon. He could go for a ways, but there was no way to know which way Sam had gone. Or how far away he could be by now. If a demon…

"She said you didn't come here alone."

Castiel stilled. He felt dread creeping over him, and said nothing. Dean paused, and went on.

"I thought that was pretty weird, seeing as you didn't say anything. So I asked a little more, and she didn't know a name, but she gave me a description. 'Really tall, shaggy dark brown hair. Little bit awkward, big sad eyes.' I thought, you know who that sounds like? But that's impossible, right?"

"Dean," Castiel started to say, hesitantly, but the older Winchester cut him off.

"Was it Sam?" he asked harshly. "Were you here with Sam?"

Castiel wanted to lie. He didn't know how, but he wanted to say something, anything, other than what he did. Which was, "Yes. I arrived here with your brother."

Dean's breathing hitched. "You said he was dead," he said loudly. Castiel glanced away, embarrassed.

"I didn't. I implied, and let you conclude."

Dean snarled, a vicious sound he shouldn't have been able to make, by rights. "You _lied _to me." He took a pacing step closer. "Why didn't you-"

"I didn't know how you would react." Castiel kept his voice even with an effort. Dean turned away, in a tight circle, paced a few steps.

"And he was himself?" Dean's voice was tight, about to snap. "It wasn't some kind of trick?"

Castiel felt a slow burn of anger start in his stomach. "Yes, he was." Dean stopped, held very still.

"Then where is he," he said, deadly soft, and there was something dangerous in his eyes. "Did you hide him somewhere? From me?"

"No," Castiel said. He didn't know where the calm in his voice came from. Certainly not from within, where something was simmering to a boil. "I am not hiding him. Sam appears to be gone. Since the morning you came back."

Dean recoiled. "What?"

Castiel turned away. "I woke up, and he was gone. I looked for him, but I found you instead." There was a silence. A surprisingly long and too quiet silence. Then:

"You're telling me he was _alive?_" Dean's voice was trembling with anger, potent and terrible. "That he was with you, and you _lost _him?"

"I wasn't the first to," Castiel said, before he could think better of it. He could feel _himself _starting to shake now. Dean jerked. "You weren't there," he continued, "You were _dead, _and Sam was going through withdrawal, and I didn't need to be there. I didn't want to be. I could have left him there to die or let him kill himself a thousand times, and I didn't. You don't know what it was like. _I had nothing left._"

"What the hell does that have to do with letting Sam just walk away-"

"Didn't you?"

The words were meant to hurt. Meant to wound. Nonetheless, he almost regretted it when Dean jerked again, and went pale. He wasn't sure why he kept going, why he even bothered. "You walked away," he heard himself saying, "You cut him loose. Left him alone and open to Lucifer. Lucifer who was _compassionate _and _sympathetic_." He sucked in a breath, and could hardly understand his own next words, unaware until he spoke them how true he felt they were. "He would have said no for you."

Dean's face was ashen. "Cas," he said.

"I did," the former angel said, "The best I could. Don't blame me if it wasn't enough."

_I already do. _

He turned savagely on his heel and walked away.

~.~

He didn't see Dean that night or much of the next day. Castiel refused to go looking for him. That would be too much like begging, and he wasn't so certain that what he had said was wrong. Wasn't certain at all.

And Sam was still gone.

Sometimes he thought the exhaustion he felt had sunk down into his bones and would never leave again. Sometimes he regretted the day he'd ever _heard _the name Winchester.

And sometimes he just wished that he had done better. With everything.

This was apparently one of the last kinds of times.

He found some alcohol and tried drinking some, but it tasted sour and reminded him of days that he wanted to forget. Drinking alone was also not as appealing as it once was.

Sam did not reappear. Castiel almost started to pack his things, then stopped. There was no use. There was never any damned use. Everything he had done had ended in failure.

The thought was maudlin, but he turned it over and held onto it anyway. Perhaps it was somehow comforting. If he was such a failure, nothing need be expected of him now.

Dean came to him as he unpacked the few things he'd shoved in his bag, standing awkwardly in the entrance to the tent and watching him. Castiel let him stand there and waited.

"Hey. Cas." Dean cleared his throat, and he paused, turning. Dean glanced at the bag.

"Going somewhere?"

"I was considering it. What do you want?" He knew his voice was rough, even harsh, but he didn't have any real desire to moderate it. Dean looked more ragged than he had before, though, and Castiel felt sorry for that. _You were fine with him being dead. What's the matter with gone? _He thought just a little spitefully, and shook it off. "You can come in," he added, belatedly.

Dean stepped inside. "We do share this tent, right?" he said, feigning normalcy that Castiel was untouched by. Then he paused, and even his weak attempt at a smile slipped away. "Did you share one with…"

"Yes," said Castiel. And added, though he wasn't sure why, "Most of his things are still here."

Dean nodded, his eyes not quite meeting Castiel's. The former angel didn't expect an apology, so he was surprised when his friend (former friend?) straightened and said, "Sorry for – uh, yelling at you earlier."

"Accepted," Castiel said, without thinking about whether it really mattered or not. He turned back to the pack and finished pulling things out of it. There was quiet for a little while.

"What do you think…where did he go?"

"If I knew, I would be looking," Castiel said, quietly and flatly. "He might have walked off in any direction. And been captured, by people or by demons or even by angels. He might have walked off and died. Or perhaps he traded his life for yours. Or perhaps God traded his life for yours. I don't know."

More silence. "So you're just giving up?" Dean said finally, sounding incredulous. As though he would still do anything for his younger brother; travel to the ends of the earth for him. Castiel almost scoffed. As if either of them had 'anything' left in them, let alone 'everything.'

And he wondered, a little, if Dean wasn't just going through the motions.

"I think by now I am licensed to give up," Castiel said, turning sharply, his voice more of a snap than he expected. "After _you _I was licensed to give up. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't have just drunk myself to death then. I don't know which direction to go. I don't know if he's even still alive."

"So you're not even going to try to find out?" Still stubbornly indignant. Castiel abandoned his pack.

"Tell me. What would you say if you saw your brother again?"

Dean blinked. "What?"

"What would you say to Sam, if you saw him again? If he were to miraculously appear at this very moment. Unharmed. As whole as I expect he will ever get."

He still looked puzzled. "I would…"

"Think," said Castiel. "It has been more than five years since you spoke. Remind me again what the last words you exchanged were. Tell me what you said to me, all those times. _If I saw Sam again, not even Lucifer, Sam, I'd give him a piece of my fucking mind…" _

Dean didn't quite flinch. He looked a little like he wanted to, though. "Things changed."

"Did they? Do you think they did for Sam? For all you know, he would run from you. After all, everyone else already wants him dead, Lucifer or not. Why should you be any different?"

"Cas," said Dean, the edges of his voice rough. "What are you even saying? What's the point you're trying to make?"

Castiel leaned forward, ever so slightly. "Do you really want him back, or do you just feel like you should?" He asked harshly, and then walked out of the tent, needing to escape the small space and Dean's confused and hurt eyes.

Why was it his duty, his responsibility? Castiel wanted it all gone. Or at least Sam back, and he wasn't even sure why. Perhaps because he felt like he had been succeeding, and had it snatched away from him. And was curious whether he could still save one person.

Dean didn't follow him out. Castiel didn't return to the tent, and didn't sleep. The night was actually clear, though there were thunderstorms in the east. He sat outside and watched the stars rise, while the detritus of humanity drifted in the camp behind him.

~.~

In the morning, Castiel stood up and turned around and found someone there watching him. The young woman was wearing a pristine, crisp suit, which was a better hint than anything to what she was.

He rubbed his tired eyes and looked at the people walking around. None of them seemed to notice anything strange. "Found me," Castiel said flippantly, spreading his arms. "Come to kill me at last?"

The angel tilted her head, seeming confused. Castiel had forgotten that angels didn't tend to understand sarcasm. "Castiel," she said, her voice musical. The former angel almost felt his cells vibrate with envy. "I have not come to smite you. Be at peace."

"Sure," said Castiel. "I'll just do that." She stared at him again, and Castiel sighed. "I don't recognize you. Can't. Who are you?"

"Zadkiel," she said after a moment's pause. "I am Zadkiel."

"And if you're not here to smite me, what do you want?" Zadkiel wasn't an archangel only because she wasn't a warrior. Castiel had the uncomfortable feeling that he should be feeling more afraid than he was.

"There is chaos in heaven," Zadkiel said. "I have come to ask you to return with me. Michael offers forgiveness and the restoration of your grace if you will swear loyalty."

"I am not a great warrior," said Castiel.

"Michael has asked for your return." It wasn't an answer. Castiel wasn't surprised by that. Most of the angels, formerly himself included, were not in the business of frankness and clarity. It was one thing he certainly did not miss about his former brothers.

Castiel considered. He wondered what Michael would ask of him, after loyalty was sworn. His trust and admiration of the archangel had diminished somewhat in the past five years. Perhaps more than somewhat. He imagined Michael must be frustrated with not getting his fight.

"Where is Sam Winchester?" He asked, abruptly.

Zadkiel gave him an odd look. "Lucifer's vessel? I know not. Does it matter?"

_Does it? _Castiel asked himself, and glanced sideways instead of meeting Zadkiel's clear, unclouded eyes. An angel without doubts or uncertainty. Would he have that again, with his grace, or would he remain with the seeds of humanity he'd nurtured and grown through the fall?

It was nothing dramatic he thought of. Just Sam driving the car, eyes ahead, glancing sideways at Castiel and attempting a smile.

"No," he said, "I won't go back with you."

Zadkiel seemed truly taken aback. "Why, may I ask?"

_You wouldn't understand if I tried to explain, _Castiel thought but didn't say. Instead he said, "I doubt. I regret. I don't think those are things I could let go of."

Zadkiel's delicate mouth turned down. "Is there nothing I can say to convince you?"

"There is nothing," Castiel affirmed. Zadkiel looked regretful.

"Then I am sorry," she said. "I do not think that Michael will offer you this clemency again."

"I'm surprised he offered it at all," Castiel said, and bowed. "Thank you. Please do tell Michael to…stay away from the Winchesters." He included the plural. Just in case.

Zadkiel said nothing, and fluttered away with a soft sound of wings. Castiel stayed standing where he was staring at the spot for what felt like a long while. He didn't understand his own disquiet.

~.~

It was late in the next day before Castiel realized that he hadn't seen Dean at all. He hadn't come to find Castiel, and the former angel was struck with a sudden fear that perhaps the other Winchester had up and vanished as well.

He found him, though, sitting on a rock not far from the tent they shared, stare as blank and distant as the expression Castiel imagined rested on his own face so often.

"I shouldn't have snapped at you," Castiel said, after a while, though he wasn't sure how much he meant it or why he apologized. Dean glanced sideways, then looked back out at the horizon.

"Yeah," he said simply. For some reason that response made Castiel feel worse.

"It's been a long…a hard time. After you died."

"Uh-huh," said Dean, which meant nothing to Castiel. He hesitated, trying to find the right words. He didn't have the chance before Dean said, "Why do you think I'm back, Cas? If the war's over and everything…what am I still doing here?"

_I asked, _Castiel thought, but he didn't really believe that was the answer. "I don't know," he said. "Perhaps God…"

"That's the thing, though," said Dean. "If it was God…why now? Why wait all this time, and then…let all this happen, if He was just going to end it anyway?"

"I don't know," Castiel said again, feeling helpless at the inadequacy of his answer, but Dean wasn't done.

"And why take Sam? It just doesn't make sense."

"I don't," Castiel started to say, for the third time, and Dean rounded on him.

"But you _should. _You should know, you're supposed to get this, you're supposed to understand, aren't you?"

"No angel understands the mind of God, and I am not an angel anymore," Castiel said, too levelly, because he didn't want to lose his temper again. Not now, not here. Dean snorted.

"You sorry about that, Cas? Sorry you gave all that up for – what, this? Me? That seem like a stupid decision now?"

Castiel sighed. "I'm not sorry," he said, feeling even the start of his temper drain out of him. "I regret things, sometimes, but I'm not sorry."

Dean fell silent, and then sighed. "You were right, you know. I don't know what I'd do if I actually…saw Sam again. Or what he'd do. I guess it just seems like…I don't know. I never really got used to him being gone, you know?" One of Dean's hands swiped over his face. "You going to bite my head off if I ask you what he was like?"

"No," Castiel said, after a moment. "And he was…tired. Sad. Wounded. But…when I was suffering, he did his best to take care of me." It wasn't enough, but it was all he could think of to say. Dean's shoulders, hunched, twitched very slightly. "He asked about you," Castiel added, after a moment. "Wanted to know…I didn't say much. Didn't want to."

Dean made a noise halfway between a huff and a sigh. "Doubt anything you could say would shock him."

"Probably not," Castiel agreed, and then sat down carefully next to Dean, something weighing down on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry I didn't do better," Castiel said suddenly, and Dean scoffed again.

"Yeah, like I did?"

Castiel tipped his head to the side. "True," he allowed, and they both laughed, weakly, at their own failure.

"I can't stay here," Dean said suddenly. "I need to be moving. I don't want to just – sit around. You get that, right?"

"I get it." Castiel looked out at the shifting grasses of this plain, wondering what it had looked like five years ago, or ten. "We can go."

"Go where, though? That's what I keep asking…" Dean's shoulders slumped, and his head fell forward, looking at the ground.

Castiel shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "Yeah, kind of. Maybe not. But it does to me. I feel like I should be… I don't get it," he said again. "I don't…I miss him, Cas. If this is supposed to be better – why raise me now and take him at the same time?"

Castiel didn't have an answer to that. "Maybe he's not gone. We'll find him," Castiel said, with more conviction than he felt. "No matter how far – no matter where we have to look…we'll find him. Somewhere."

Dean didn't look around at him, didn't even budge. "Yeah," he echoed, his voice heavy and weighted with something dull. "Somewhere." And Castiel's own doubts echoed in his voice.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: So...yeah. This is still happening. Somehow or another. Bad news: this chapter is shorter and still manages to kind of ramble. Good news: I think I know where I'm going now. So, if you're still around...congratulations! Bear with me as I continue to try this "WIP" thing I am so unfamiliar with. Peace._

* * *

They left early the next morning. Castiel packed Sam's things and threw them at Dean to add to the small amount that he had collected. He took the tent and some food as well, and didn't really feel all that guilty.

Either that was a sign of his moral decay or just the fact that he was too tired to care. Dean stared at Sam's bag with something like longing, as though his brother might climb out of it.

"Which way?" he said, when Castiel didn't speak to direct them anywhere. The former (ex) angel shrugged.

"I haven't the slightest. North. West. South. Northwest."

Dean looked flat-out pissed for a moment, then he deflated. "So what are we going to do? Where do we start?"

_Stop __saying__ we,_ Castiel was tempted to say. But it was him and Dean, and that did, technically speaking, make 'we'. He shrugged mutely. It felt heavy on his shoulders, the futility of this. The thought of walking through potentially endless, half dead wilderness with Dean for company did not hold a large amount of savor either. "I already looked for leads. No one saw anything."

"So, what, we pick a direction and cross our fingers?"

"Unless you have a better idea." Castiel thought he would hear Dean's teeth grinding.

"Are you even trying?"

"Don't ask me that," Castiel said, as flatly as he could manage. "I don't believe you have the right."

It was a low blow and he knew it, but Dean fell silent. His jaw tightened and released. "South," he said, finally. "Let's go south. Maybe we'll get lucky."

Castiel did not quite scoff, because he didn't think it would be helpful. The temptation was there nonetheless, though. Dean seemed to hear it anyway, because when he turned his back on Castiel it was tight and tense.

"Let's just go," he said, simply, and Castiel didn't respond, just shouldered his pack. They'd considered going back for the car, but given that it wasn't working and Sam was unlikely to be traveling by road, the idea fell by the wayside.

They walked in silence. The camp seemed to recede quickly into shimmering haze. It was going to be a hot day. He let Dean walk in front, his back stubborn and imposing. Castiel held his own silence for his own reasons, and waited for Dean to break it for both of them.

It took less time than he thought. "You said that Sam might have…traded his life for mine. How would he have done that?"

Castiel shrugged, then remembered that Dean wasn't looking at him. "I don't know. Perhaps if he contacted an angel somehow."

"I thought they were gone."

Castiel thought of Zadkiel and grimaced. "Apparently not anymore." Dean made a sound that was probably supposed to be a laugh but sounded just a touch too bitter to be genuine.

"Now that everything's over they come crawling back?" Castiel was glad that Dean didn't ask how he knew. For some reason, he didn't particularly desire to discuss that particular conversation. "Always were assholes, weren't they?"

"Yes," Castiel agreed simply. Dean shook his head minutely and then glanced over his shoulder.

"It'd be an angel, though? Not a demon?"

"It would have to be," Castiel said. "I doubt you were in Hell. It would not be permitted." Just as Dean began to look relieved, Castiel continued (possibly more harshly than necessary), "For your brother, the one would be little better than the other. And quite possibly worse. You yourself have experienced some of the cruelty angels can be capable of."

Dean's face fell. He swallowed, and Castiel felt a twinge of guilt, no matter his current frustration with the older Winchester.

"Of course, it may be entirely a coincidence. There is no real way to tell. Although an angel would likely have left some trace. Returning a soul to earth is a task that requires considerable power."

"So he might have just…walked off?" Dean seemed puzzled. Castiel shrugged.

"It seems likely."

"Why?" Dean asked, and Castiel turned and just looked at him. Dean looked genuinely puzzled, and so he answered simply.

"Why not?" he said, and opened his stride to move into the lead without waiting for Dean's response. He could see Sam's face in his mind's eye. All the despair, all the pain. Maybe Dean had forgotten what that was like. Castiel had not.

He still knew. Looking at the expanse around them, he could feel his own temptation, could understand the kind of longing that might suck someone out here, to wander and wander until, maybe, one could forget one's name, self, history, everything.

Castiel kept walking. Dean started humming something that he didn't recognize. "Cas," Dean said suddenly. "Are you all right?"

He almost stopped, surprised. He could hardly remember the last time Dean had asked him that question. "Yes," he said automatically, on a monotone. "I'm fine." It was the only answer he'd ever heard, and he didn't know what else to say.

They stopped early that night and woke up to a thunderstorm overhead. The tent shook, but the tarp kept out the water and no lightning came to strike them down. "Jesus," Dean said, as another torrent of rain pounded against the plastic separating them from the elements. "Nice night for camping, huh?"

Castiel had forgotten Dean's wry humor. He let one corner of his mouth turn up but was at a loss for how to reply. It seemed the older Winchester didn't expect one, though, because a moment later he was speaking again. "I remember we used to go on these camping trips, sometimes. For hunts. Sam always liked it." His voice dropped lower. "One of the only things I can remember Sam liking about those days."

_I__ don__'__t__ need__ this,_ Castiel thought, but Dean did, and he had been cruel enough before. He stayed silent and listened. "He always…he was just never happy, you know? Never. And even Stanford…I guess nothing ever really got better after that, you know? First it was Dad, and then it was the demon blood and then-" Dean stopped.

_It__'__s __beside __the__ point__ to__ feel __guilty__ now,_ Castiel wanted to say. Instead he reached out and awkwardly touched Dean's shoulder. "Your brother was happy with you," he said, and Dean didn't roll away but he did look at Castiel like the former angel had said something wrong.

"Yeah," he said, not quite harshly, "And that went like a charm, didn't it. Fuck. I don't even know what we're doing, Cas. You don't know what we're doing."

Thunder resonated overhead. "If you want to turn back," Castiel said, as neutrally as he could manage.

"And give up on him again?" Dean said indignantly. "No. I can't. I just can't." Castiel heard him sigh. The wind and the rain picked up again. "I just wish…what if I'd been a day earlier? Would things be different?"

"It is pointless to speculate," Castiel said evenly. Dean snorted.

"Don't you think I know that?"

"I am reminding you." He listened to the storm and thought about God. "I prayed for your return," Castiel said, on an impulse. Then added, "I believe we both did."

"Yeah?" Dean seemed slightly surprised. "I got the impression you were kind of pissed at me."

"I never wanted you dead," Castiel said, and decided that it was true. "I only occasionally wanted to punch you in the face."

"You haven't yet," Dean remarked. Castiel shrugged.

"You died," he said simply. "I think that is probably sufficient."

For some reason, Dean laughed. A little hoarsely, true, but it was still a laugh. Castiel didn't know how to answer that, given that he wasn't entirely certain he'd been joking. Dean fell silent quickly, though, and his next question hurt.

"If Sam's – you know," he said, "Dead. Do you think he's in Hell?"

Castiel choked on that question, because he knew exactly why he hadn't asked it. "I don't know," he said. The thunderstorm was fading to the east. "It is…a possibility."

"Huh," Dean said, and fell silent. The former angel wanted to say something to reassure him, but everything he could think of sounded hollow.

"The storm's passing," he said instead.

"Let's go back to sleep," Dean said, and rolled over, putting his back resolutely toward Castiel. Castiel fell silent and looked up at the top of the tent, wondering what Sam was looking at now. His own thoughts circling in his skull without escape.

He closed his eyes.

~.~

Sam had nearly a five day head start, Castiel realized the next morning as he was disassembling the tent. He would probably be covering his tracks and staying well away from other people. It was supremely unlikely that they would ever catch him.

He looked at Dean, whose expression had turned grim sometime overnight, and knew he wouldn't say anything. "What I wouldn't give for the Impala," Dean groused. "We should keep moving. Right?"

"If you want to find Sam, that would probably be the thing to do," Castiel said dryly, and Dean trained a gaze on him that was pure anger.

"Cas," he said, and Castiel just looked at him. Dean let it go, turning away and starting off into the softly waving grass. Castiel started off behind him after a few moments, sighing to himself, feeling the weight of too much time and too much pain bending his shoulders down.

"What are we going to do when we find him?" Dean said, after a while, turning around to face him, walking backwards. When, Cas noted, and almost winced. How different, this Dean, from the one he remembered. Perhaps this was the Dean Sam had known before Hell.

"I suppose that would depend on his condition," he said neutrally, rather than speaking any of his thoughts aloud. He could almost see Dean tense.

"What do you mean?"

Castiel shrugged and kept his mouth shut. He knew that belligerent tone – perhaps not so different after all – and responding to it never led to anything productive. It was the voice that Dean used when he didn't want to be reasonable. He watched Dean's face fall.

"Cas…"

"He could be hurt, or sick, or insane," Castiel said, as flatly as he could manage, though there was a small and unhappy twist in his stomach at the thought. After a moment, he added, "Or dead. I told you he wasn't…at his best. And this is hardly safe country."

"He'll be fine," Dean said roughly. Then added, "He'd better be, goddammit-" and stopped abruptly. Castiel sighed. He had heard those very words, _he__'__ll__be__fine_more often than he'd wanted to in the first year after the Winchesters' sundering. He didn't feel it was necessary to remind Dean of that.

"Don't expect any miracles," was all he could say.

Dean snorted. "I dunno, Cas. Someone brought me back, right?"

_That__'__s__ you,_ Castiel thought, _and__ Heaven __has__ always __liked__ you__ best, _but he did not think that would be a particularly productive thought to express either. He doubted Sam could expect to find Heaven even after death.

He turned from that rather morbid train of thought and sniffed the air. It smelled like dust already, even while the earth was still damp; dust and perhaps a distant fire.

"What will you do if we don't find Sam?" he asked finally, and Dean's shoulders tensed from where he was walking on ahead.

"Keep looking," he said.

~.~

They found an abandoned barn and farmhouse the next day, and raided it for food. There wasn't much – a few cans that were swollen Castiel put down hastily, a bag of rice. Dean found some matches and a pair of boots.

Castiel ventured out to the barn and found a cat.

It hissed at him as he approached. Lean and gray and mangy, it was missing an ear and there was a matted patch of bloody fur on its side. It was old and bedraggled and Castiel stopped moving, crouched down, and held out a hand.

"Here," he said, and then was somewhat lost for words. How did one summon a cat? "Come here," he tried, "I won't hurt you. Maybe I can help."

The cat hissed at him again, single ear flat to its head, and Castiel sat back on his heels. Food would lure the cat out, but what kind of food? Meat? They didn't have very much of that. Castiel tried moving closer and the cat hunched into itself, fur standing on end, but didn't move back. Castiel reached out a hand again, just a few finger-widths from the cat, trying to hold perfectly still.

"Cas? Hey, Cas – what're you doing?" The cat jerked back into the darkness and Castiel almost swore.

"There's a cat," he said instead, quietly and calmly. "I'm trying to get it to come out. I think it's hurt."

"Cas," Dean said, and stopped. "We can't adopt it," he said, after a moment. Sounding as though he regretted it.

"I know," Castiel said. He realized he was thinking of Sam. _There__was__a__cat__in__the__backyard.__It__ran__away._His stomach clenched and he didn't move. "That doesn't mean I can't…help."

"Shouldn't we keep going?"

"Your brother already has days of lead on us," Castiel said, more sharply than he meant to. "Do you really think a few hours will make any difference?"

"What's the big deal about a cat?" Dean asked, but the cat was emerging from the shadows and a moment later a dry nose just barely touched his hand. Castiel found himself smiling.

"It means there's something else alive out here," Castiel said, echoing Sam, what seemed like years ago. "Something ordinary like a cat, that's probably as lonely as we are."

"I'm not lonely," Dean said, and Castiel felt the urge to laugh, perhaps a bit hysterically. Instead he kept his hand where it was, and waited. The cat limped out into the open eventually, and before it could think better of its decision Castiel scooped it into his arms and identified it as female. Dean looked at her and winced.

"Cas…"

"Let's take her inside." There was the remains of a collar around her neck, but it fell away as he touched it. She felt light, full of air and not much more than bone as he held her. Her claws dug into his arms but a moment later she relaxed and he felt a weak vibration against his chest. "She's purring," he told Dean.

Dean said nothing.

Castiel found some dry cat food in the cupboard. It looked like mice had chewed into the bag, but past the surface layer the food looked all right. He poured it into a bowl and put it down on the floor, but when he set the cat down next to it she didn't eat.

She returned to Castiel instead, rubbing feebly against his legs, her fur rubbing off, until he picked her up again. The blood on her side felt sticky on his fingers, but when he tried to find the source she hissed and drew blood on the back of his hands.

Dean was watching him with a curious expression. "What?" Castiel said, slightly sharply. Dean shrugged.

"I didn't know you liked animals."

"They are God's creations," Castiel said, and then remembered that God had abandoned all of them. He frowned. Dean glanced away. The cat licked the back of his hand she had just clawed with a rough tongue.

"You'll be all right," Castiel said. "You're a brave and clever girl to live this long."

She purred for a couple more minutes, then stopped. It took Castiel almost a minute after to realize that she was dead.

"She was on her way out already," Dean said, almost gently. Castiel just looked down at the small, light bundle in his arms and thought _if__ I__ could__ do __one __thing,__ right__ now,__ I__ would__ bring __her__ back._

"We should keep going," Castiel said.

"Do you want to…I don't know. Bury her?" Dean seemed strangely tentative. Awkward. Castiel looked down at the cat, her patchy fur, the ragged stump of her ear.

"No," he said. "No. That's fine."

He set her down again, gently. The feeling of her raspy tongue seemed to linger on his hand.

"Let's just keep going."

They left the house, and the barn. Castiel didn't look back as it dwindled behind them.

~.~

Castiel woke midway through the night to the barrel of a gun shoved in his face and a boot in his ribs. He looked immediately over at Dean, whose jaw was set in clear fury and glaring at his own bodyguard. There were four of them, all armed.

"Nice job falling asleep on watch, bitch," Dean growled under his breath, and Castiel stiffened, though he couldn't really object. He focused back on the man – hunter, Castiel guessed? – facing him down. "Look, I think you've got the wrong…"

"We know who you are," said one of the men not directly on them. "Dean Winchester. You're notorious. You, though," he looked at Castiel, "Who're you? Not the brother."

He spat.

Castiel remained impassive and didn't answer. He heard Dean growl, though, and the man guarding him prodded the gun at his face.

"Answer the goddamn question," he said loudly.

"Cas," he said, finally. "My name is Cas."

The hunters – he was sure now – looked at each other. Apparently it didn't mean anything to them, though, because the two who weren't holding guns turned to Dean, who was looking at them like he was considering murder.

Possibly gruesomely.

"What do you want, guys?" Dean said roughly. "We're just wandering."

"That right." One of them crossed his arms. "What about the apocalypse, huh? What can you tell us about that? Hear you were mixed up in that shit knee deep. You and little Sammy." The hunter spat again, and Dean looked even more furious. Castiel was watching them closely, and he could see the way deep and raging anger burned in four pairs of eyes.

"It's over," he broke in. "The apocalypse is over. Lucifer is dead."

The hunters were abruptly all staring at him. "What?"

"He's dead," Castiel said again. "Dean killed him. With the Colt." Dean was staring at him, frowning, and Castiel willed him to remember how well he could lie. "Some time ago." The hunters looked uncertain.

The one Castiel had pinpointed as the leader came around quickly, though, narrowing his eyes. "And your brother?" he said to Dean. "Lucifer's vessel. He dead too?"

There was something in his eyes that made Castiel nervous, but before he could say anything Dean opened his mouth and said, "Yeah. He's dead," in such a flat voice that Cas was almost convinced himself.

"There," said the hunter, "We know you're lying. Don't we, boys." The other hunters nodded, and one of them twitched, his mouth twisting downwards.

"Yeah," he said, "Sure do."

_Oh,_ thought Castiel, and then in quick succession _we__'__re__ going__ the __right__ way, __then_ and _they__'__ve __killed __him __already._Dean had gotten there before him, and was already saying, "You son of a bitch. Where is he? _Where__'__s__ Sam?_"

"So what really happened?" The lead hunter was saying. "If you killed the devil, how'd your brother get out of the bargain, huh?"

"Where is he," Dean said again, and the hunter with the gun trained on him swung the butt into his face with what sounded too close to a _crack._

"We were hoping you could tell us," said the lead hunter, sneering, "Seeing as his demon buddies spirited him away-"

"What?" said Castiel, and if he'd been nervous before, now it was worse. Dean just…blanched.

"Fuck," he breathed, one hand still cupping his nose.

"Tore through two of our buddies on the way out," said one of the other hunters. "So you can bet we'd like to find him and have a little chat. How about it, Dean? How about you tell us where we-"

Castiel wasn't sure how he did it. Dean was fast when he wanted to be, when he was angry, and he was angry now; had been for days and now had something to unleash it on. He disarmed the hunter holding a gun to him, clubbed him in the head with it, and shot the one holding the shotgun on Castiel in the leg. He dropped, screaming. Castiel grabbed the gun and rose, pointing it at the hunter Dean wasn't covering, though he wasn't entirely sure he knew how to use it.

No one but he needed to know that.

"Winchester," growled the leader. "We ain't got a problem with you." He held both hands up, though he did have a gun in one. "Just your no good brother."

"My brother's mine to take care of," Dean said, low and furious, and Cas saw his finger tighten on the trigger. "So here's the thing. I'll take care of this, and you guys can move on. Hunt demons, whatever. Go after Sam and I'll kill you."

"You sure you want it to go like that?" The lead hunter said, and Castiel could almost admire his cool. He would have preferred not to face Dean down when he looked like he did right now.

"It's either that or I shoot you in the face right now," Dean said, and smiled. A momentary chill ran down Castiel's spine. "Oh yeah," he added. "And I'm taking the gun."

The screams of the man who'd been shot had died down to whimpers as he writhed in the grass. The hunter looked at him, looked at his still conscious companion, and backed down. Hatred was blazing in his eyes.

"Don't think we're done," he said. "You and me."

Dean just snorted. "Which way, boys?" His voice was heavy with mocking. Castiel felt the same unnerving sense of fear again.

"Last we saw, that way," he said, after a moment, pointing southwest. "But you know demons. Sammy could be anywhere by now."

"Great," said Dean coolly. "Thanks." He slung the rifle over his shoulder. "Come on, Cas."

Castiel dropped the gun on the ground after ejecting the shells and followed after Dean. They went five paces before Dean stopped and turned back. "Oh right," he said, and aimed, and fired. The lead hunter went down yelling, reaching for his foot. "That's for whatever you did before the demons got to him," Dean said, and moved on.

Castiel followed. And did not look back.

Dean kept walking until they were out of sight, and then he stopped and sank down into the ground. "Jesus," he said, under his breath. "Jesus. God. Cas…"

Castiel thought he was probably supposed to be unnerved, and wasn't. He examined that for a moment, then put it away to consider later.

"I doubt," Castiel said, "They would have felt much compunction about killing you, Dean." He did not quite say _it__was__justified._But it was close. Dean stared at him balefully.

"I shouldn't have done that. That's not who I want to be." Castiel looked at the grass and didn't say anything. Dean took a deep breath and visibly gathered himself, pushing himself to his feet. "Fuck. Jesus. Demons, Cas?"

Castiel felt a little turn of his own stomach. Demons, indeed. It didn't surprise him – Sam had a unique signature, and probably only more so now, and all of his protections were probably long gone as well. They would have been looking, and eventually they found.

There was nowhere, as Castiel had told the younger Winchester before, that he could run far enough or fast enough to get away from everyone who wanted his head on a pike. He shook his head minutely and Dean turned in a tight circle like if he looked somewhere else things might change. "Demons," he repeated, and his voice was heavy with despair. "Cas, he could be anywhere. We'll never find him."

"He could still be close," Castiel said, but he could hear the doubt in his own voice, too far from convincing. Dean just looked at him.

"You think we'll get lucky?"

Giving the honest answer would be stupid, but Castiel couldn't quite bring himself to lie. "It's possible," he hedged. "Maybe there's a lair of them around here, and that's why…" He trailed off. They should have asked how long it'd been. A day? Two?

(They might never know, they might just keep walking forever and never find anything, not even a body)

"Yeah," said Dean, but his voice was even heavier than Castiel's had been. "Yeah. Maybe." Castiel felt his shoulders slump.

"At least we know he left the camp alive," he said, after a moment, and it sounded awful and thin even to him. Dean snorted.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess we've got that. Let's just keep going. Maybe you're right. Maybe we'll get lucky." He turned, and started walking away. Castiel looked after him, frowning, and Dean paused a few feet away.

"What happens if he's dead, Cas?" Dean said, quietly, without turning around.

"I don't know," Castiel said.

"I just," Dean said, and then stopped. "Fuck. I don't know. Fuck. I just wish…"

Castiel was momentarily angry, and didn't even know that he could say why. It passed quickly and he held his silence close. Dean fell silent.

"Let's just go," he said again, and this time he didn't stop.

~.~

Near to dark, they came upon another house with four unmarked graves in the back, fresh. The inside smelled faintly of sulfur. There were bloodstains on the floor. Dean stared at them, apparently transfixed. To Castiel they looked too large.

Dean's eyes were bright, though, when he looked up from the floor, and there was a light of determination that made Castiel's heart thud briefly with something like longing or relief.

"You know, Cas," he said. "I think we're catching up."

For some reason, Castiel thought of the cat, curled up in his arms for a few moments of bliss before she died.

He forced a smile. "Yes," he said. "Maybe we are."


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: Another six months, another chapter. HI GUYS. So this is not the last chapter (as I expected it to be) but the next one very well may be. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this monster, given that it grew way beyond what I thought it would ever be; your encouragement is part of what kept me going, and definitely was what made this more than a oneshot. You're all lovely. _

* * *

From the house with the four graves there'd been a swath of dead grass ten feet wide for about a hundred yards. They headed that way. The trail vanished quickly, but they voted to continue straight on. After all, with the hunter population decimated and both angels and Lucifer gone, there wasn't much reason not to go straight as the crow flies. Wherever they were going.

Castiel kept half expecting to find a body in their path, mangled and torn and broken, but thus far they'd been spared that.

And with every hour that went by, his hope dwindled a little more.

If a determined Dean had been frustrating, Castiel quickly discovered that a hopeful Dean as travel companion was worse. At least to him, at the moment, given the (very short) length of his (poor) temper.

He thought he remembered having patience once. Castiel couldn't help but think that as recently as one year ago, he would have been delighted to see Dean like this.

So he had changed. Castiel already knew that.

"Tell me more about Sam," Dean commanded, half turning to look at Castiel even as he continued to move.

"He was your brother," Castiel said neutrally. "You know him better than I do."

Dean made a frustrated noise. "No, you dumbass, I mean – after everything. After Lucifer."

"I've told you that already."

"You told me what he was like. Sort of. That doesn't…I mean, what did you do? What did you talk about? That kind of thing."

Castiel thought of the few times, back at the beginning, when he had tried to bring up Sam out of some misplaced sense of compassion or worry and Dean, hard eyed and stony, said _I don't want to fucking hear it, okay? I'm done with Sam. There's nothing to talk about. _

He shrugged one shoulder and disliked the unreasonable flare of anger somewhere in the region of his spleen. "There isn't much to say."

"Come on, Cas." Dean said, and sounded almost imploring. "Don't give me that."

Castiel thought about all the small things he could say – _he made me soup when I was suffering, I caught him praying once. _He shrugged again. Dean scoffed.

"You know," he said, "You're a great traveling companion. Real conversationalist."

Castiel gritted his teeth and kept moving.

"I bet Sam talked your friggin' ear off. I swear once that kid learned how to open his mouth he never shut it." Dean had turned around, voice raised to make it audible. "It was always 'why this, Dean' and 'why that, Dean' and-"

"I asked him why he said yes to Lucifer," Castiel said, to get Dean to stop. He stopped.

Cleared his throat. Castiel expected him to let it go, but to his surprise Dean's head turned slightly to the side and he paused. "Yeah? What'd he say?"

Castiel felt a twinge of guilt, or regret, or something like it. He sighed. "It is not important. Now."

"Cas," Dean said, and probably meant it to be a warning tone, but to Castiel it just sounded tired, and it occurred to the ex-angel that Dean's hopefulness might be ever so slightly specious.

Castiel glanced out at the horizon, away from Dean. "What you would expect. He was lonely. He was tired. Lucifer offered an end." There was a silence, and Castiel added, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't…" He trailed off, unsure exactly what it was he was doing. Playing the role Dean had, perhaps. Taking out his frustration with the world on the nearest presence.

"No, it's okay," Dean said. "I mean. Yeah. Like you said. What I'd expect." He paused. "Where do you think we would be? You know, if…if we hadn't split up. Sam and me, I mean."

"Impossible to say," Castiel said shortly. "We should keep moving."

"But where do you _think?_"

Castiel gritted his teeth. "I'm not inclined to participate in your self-flagellation exercises, Dean. Perhaps nothing would have changed. Perhaps things would have been worse. Perhaps they would have been better. No one can say."

Dean swallowed, then turned and started walking again. "Yeah," he said. "Right."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, except for the grass swishing against their legs.

"You don't think we're going to find Sam, do you," Dean said, quietly.

Castiel considered lying. "No," he said after a moment. "I don't think we will."

Another few moments of silence. "You're wrong," Dean said suddenly, and opened his stride.

~.~

Castiel woke up with a vague, uncertain feeling of dread. He wondered whether angels were watching them. After all, they could visit his dreams like any other human, now.

He knew of a few angels that might find the idea entertaining, or as close to entertaining as his brothers found anything.

Castiel rolled to his side and found Dean, to his very slight resentment, sleeping more soundly than he'd ever seen. Death had done him some good, then. Or perhaps it was this new hope buoying him up, though Castiel truly didn't know what Dean expected.

He spent his time until Dean woke up lying awake contemplating ends.

In the morning, it was snowing. Dean stuck his head out of the tent and looked up at the sky, scowling. "Well," he said. Castiel rummaged in his bag and found a coat.

"It's been like this," Castiel said mildly, tugging it on. He smelled strange and unpleasant and felt worse. A wash was probably not in the cards, though. Looking up at the sky, he added, "It'll probably stop midday." The snow was dirty, colored like ash. Castiel caught some on the tip of his finger and watched it melt, wondered if a volcano had erupted somewhere.

There was, after all, a whole world out there. Communications had been down for a while.

"Do you think it'll ever go back to normal?" Dean asked.

"The weather? Eventually," Castiel said. "Maybe in a century. Maybe in two."

Dean cast him a look. "You're real cheerful, Cas."

Castiel lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "It's better than it could be. Do you want to keep moving?"

Dean stared at him for a little while, then groaned and rubbed a hand over his face, leaving a smear of dirt behind on his face. "You know, I almost think I liked you better when you were stoned all the time."

_I'm glad you have a chance to be disappointed like the rest of us, _Castiel thought, but didn't say. He took a few steps away from the tent. It seemed very quiet.

Dean climbed out of the tent a moment later, shoved his hands in his pockets and looked upward. "Sam always liked it when it snowed," he said. "He was…such a kid about it. You know?"

"I don't really know anything about your brother," Castiel said, turning around to start pulling poles out of the tent and folding it up. A couple flakes of snow fell on the back of his neck and he shivered.

"Yeah," Dean said, after a moment. "I guess you don't. Really. It's…if things had been different. I mean, he was always the one who believed in – angels and God and shit."

"Yes," Castiel said. "I remember."

"That ended well, didn't it."

"Help me take this tent down," Castiel said, instead of answering. He remembered Sam praying with more desperation than hope. What was faith, he thought, if not something to turn to when you had nothing left?

"Like I said," Dean remarked. "Real conversationalist." But he ambled over and started to help taking down the tent.

"If you want to talk about your brother," Castiel said carefully, "I would listen."

Dean paused, abruptly, and glanced up. "You would?"

Castiel examined him critically, trying to examine that tone, but gave up on it quickly enough. It did not seem all that significant. "If you would like."

"Okay," Dean said, after a moment, looking distant. Then he blinked, and refocused. "So. Tent?"

Castiel was used to these changes in subject. He let it go.

~.~

The snow was falling lightly, at least, and didn't make for difficult walking. Not at first, anyway, though it was cold. The snow seemed to make everything quieter, and so they walked in silence for a while.

Dean, as was his wont now, broke it. "Man, I miss the Impala," he said. "She was a good car."

Dean hadn't talked about the Impala in years. Not since they'd abandoned the car somewhere outside of Tulsa after the Croats really started swarming. Castiel glanced up. Dean shot a sideways look at him.

"Think God might bring her back too?"

"I doubt it."

"Buzzkill," Dean said, but he grinned a little too, actually grinned, and Castiel wondered. It faded quickly, though, and Dean's eyes shifted forward again. "I've been thinking," he said, more seriously. "About what you said. About…what I'll say to Sam."

Castiel wondered where Dean found his faith now. When all the rest of them had lost it like water through a sieve, where did _Dean _find hope? (It struck him as, perhaps, vaguely unfair.) But he had said he would listen. "Yes."

Dean made a face. "I don't…I don't know. Still. But I don't…when I found out you'd come with Sam, right? I was pissed, yeah, but…I realized I wanted to see him. Again."

Castiel breathed out slowly through his nose. "I see," he said, neutrally.

"Jesus, Cas," Dean said. "I'm pouring out my heart like a friggin girl, and all you've got is 'I see?'"

"What do you expect me to say?" Castiel said, and couldn't quite keep it from becoming a snap. "Consolation? Comfort?"

"_Something._"

"Your brother is probably dead or will be soon," Castiel said, coldly, flatly, deliberately. "There is nothing you or I can do about this. We have no idea where we are or where we are going. It would likely be more effective to shoot yourself in the head and reunite with the memory of your brother in heaven." He wanted to _shake _Dean. _I'm not the same person I was, and neither are you, and neither is he. You can't-_

He wasn't sure what he was so certain Dean couldn't do.

(How long had it been since he'd worshipped the ground Dean walked on? Since he worshipped _anything?_)

The punch came as a surprise. Not because Dean did it – Dean had punched him before. Mostly because of the force behind it, and the fact that he lost his balance and nearly fell; did stumble back a few steps, dazed.

"What the hell, Cas," Dean said, and that face he recognized, expression of barely contained fury and confusion. It was the expression Dean'd had, or very nearly, the first time he'd greeted Dean in his vessel. "What the _hell?_"

His nose hurt.

"Why are you even following me, then, why even bother, if it's such a lost cause," Dean hissed, "Do you even _care, _did you ever, Jesus, what _happened _to you-"

"You did," Castiel pointed out. "I came because I owed you that much. Both of you."

Dean slumped, and Castiel saw it, suddenly, the edge of desperation under the determination, because Dean didn't know what he was doing, Dean didn't know what he was _going _to do. Because both he and Sam revolved around each other and didn't know what to do without that gravitational force, and here he was, caught in the pull of them both. "Cas," Dean said, and Castiel felt terrible all over again.

They stayed perfectly silent and stared at each other for a couple moments. Snow was dusting Dean's hair, and Castiel resisted the urge to brush it off.

"I'm sorry," Castiel said, stumbling slightly over the words. "I shouldn't…"

"You're probably right," Dean said, looking down at the ashy snow. "I just." He swore under his breath, turned in a circle. "I can't think about it. I _can't._"

"We should keep going," Castiel said. His cheekbone was throbbing. There would probably be a bruise. "Keep…looking."

"For the rest of my fucking life," Dean muttered, "If I have to," and drew up his shoulders like he was pulling himself together. "If you…if you want to go. You can. I mean. You've done enough. More than, honestly," and if his grin was a little tight, a little false, Castiel knew he wasn't supposed to mention it.

"No," he said, and meant it. "Where else am I going to go?" And meant that, too.

It wasn't as though there was a lot in his life with meaning anymore. Other than this.

~.~

Castiel opened his eyes in the middle of the night and found Sam crouching next to him, eyes wide and just barely reflecting back the light of the moon.

It took him a moment to realize that he was dreaming.

"Sam?" he said, anyway, as if his dream could answer him with any kind of relevance. Sam didn't move, just kept staring at him. There were massive hollows around his eyes, deep and sunken. His face looked gaunt, and he was perfectly still.

Castiel looked around and discovered that he was alone, lying in the middle of a desert plateau. He didn't recognize it, and jumped when Sam suddenly stood in one fluid motion. The younger Winchester lifted a hand and beckoned.

"Can you talk?" Castiel asked. Sam just looked at him. Quiet. Again still. Castiel clambered out of the blankets and stood up. He could probably wake up if he tried, but didn't feel any real inclination to. Sam lifted a hand and beckoned him once before turning and walking away. Castiel glanced down without knowing why and found the bloody imprints of bare feet.

He trailed after Sam, keeping eyes on his back.

He couldn't have gone more than 100 yards before realizing that he'd lost sight of Sam. He was alone. The wind smelled sour. He looked down at the bloody footprints Sam had been leaving and discovered that they had vanished as well. The cat from the house circled his legs, rubbing against them and purring, her coat rich and healthy.

Castiel had the curious feeling that he was supposed to be making something out of this, and didn't know what that something was.

He kept walking, and found a cup of soup, overturned. Through the swirling dust, he could see the house with the garden where they'd buried Dean, the door hanging open.

"You have to burn me," Sam's voice said suddenly, in his ear, and only trembled minutely. "I don't want to come back."

Castiel woke up suddenly with that same vague feeling of dread, and turned to see Dean, only to find the tent empty. He lunged out of the front flap, feeling a surge of combined fury and dread, only to find Dean and his pack sitting just outside the tent, wrapped in both coat and blanket in a small patch cleared of snow. There were heavy dark circles under his eyes when he turned to look at Castiel.

"I didn't sleep," Dean said, lowly. "They've had him for four days, about."

Castiel hesitated. His nose still throbbed and the rest of his face hurt as if in sympathy. But he'd probably deserved that. Or at least hadn't gone out of his way not to earn it. "Demons can keep someone alive for a lot longer than that," he said, finally, knowing how thin a comfort it was. Noticing Dean's flinch. A moment later his shoulders came up and he squared them deliberately; Castiel could see him putting on the mask of determination, of certainty, and wondered why Dean bothered.

"I'll make breakfast," Dean said. "You strike the tent. Let's try to get moving early, okay?"

Castiel nodded and went to work, deciding that extraneous words were probably not the thing to do, not now. He could feel the tension in Dean and suspected that he could not ease it, not now. Maybe he could have once. Back when he'd been that other Castiel, the one who would have named him _corruption _and _abomination _for what he was now.

The innocence of the young, and he had never been young.

"Thanks," Dean said, abruptly, and without preamble. "For…coming with me, I mean. And for…the rest of it."

Castiel shrugged. "I didn't do anything."

Dean looked up, for a moment, then back down. He snorted. "You kept Sam alive," he said, voice thick with bitterness. "Better than I did."

Castiel was momentarily tempted to argue, and decided that it wasn't worth it. Nothing he could say would get through to Dean right now anyway. He kept packing the tent away, and watched Dean open the cans of food out of the corner of his eye. His mouth tasted sour.

~.~

After they ate, they set off again. There was still snow on the ground, and the clouds hung low but were the wrong color for snow. The air seemed heavy and wet, pressing down like the clouds were another sea fighting to escape its boundaries. "We're going to get a thunderstorm," Dean predicted. Castiel shrugged. He felt strange, disconnected. Distant. Looking down at the ground, he half expected to see bloody footprints, a Sam-trail for them to follow.

"We should look for other shelter," Castiel said, after a moment. "Keep your eyes open for a farmhouse or a barn. Something indoors. I don't know if you remember how bad the thunderstorms can be."

"We're already looking for houses, aren't we?" Dean said, "Presumably," and then he stopped, abruptly, but Castiel knew the rest of it, _demons would want somewhere to torture him in peace _because demons were not about a quick, clean, revenge killing, both of them knew that.

(Somewhere in the early years, after his grace was gone, there'd been one that had taken Castiel. Not for very long at all, but long enough for Castiel to learn pain before many other human sensations. That – that had been the beginning of the end, even after Dean had saved him. He'd never been the same. Either of them.)

"Yes," said Castiel. "Probably," as though by keeping his words brief he could avoid what they were both thinking. Dean's head jerked slightly, in what was probably intended to be acknowledgment. His eyes slid away and Dean turned forward, picking up his pace slightly.

After a moment, Dean started humming something under his breath that Castiel didn't recognize, his eyes cast downward and shoulders slightly hunched. Castiel walked behind him for a while and kept his own silence.

It started raining at midday. Heavy, fat drops splashed to the ground and turned the snow into slush and dirt into mud. Castiel could hear a rumble of thunder somewhere, but it was still far off. The wind picked up shortly thereafter, driving the rain into their faces, and Castiel could hear Dean swearing.

A long time ago, Castiel had marveled at rain, at its restorative power and the renewal it brought about. Now he was just…wet, even through his coat.

Castiel caught the shadow on the horizon first, though it was a couple minutes more before he identified it as a house, and by then Dean had seen it too. "We're going there," Dean said, picking up his pace. "This isn't letting up anytime soon."

"Are you sure we should," Castiel started to say, and then stopped. "It's the first shelter we've seen. How likely is it that others have gotten there first?"

"You want to stay out in this?" Dean challenged, and Castiel wondered briefly if Dean was looking for a fight.

"No," Castiel acknowledged, reluctantly. "Not really."

"If there are demons there," Dean said, "We'll want to go in anyway. Come on." Dean turned, sharply, and marched toward the house with a set to his shoulders that almost made Castiel nervous.

Castiel hesitated a moment longer. It probably would have been better to keep moving, he thought, but the thunder was moving steadily closer, he felt soaked to the bone, and soon there would be lightning to contend with as well. He slogged after Dean.

They came to the front door, which looked like it was barely clinging to its hinges, just as a rumble of thunder muttered what seemed to be right overhead. Dean glanced over his shoulder even as he hefted his gun and actually grinned. "Perfect timing, am I right?" he said.

"Watch the floorboards," Castiel said, simply. The house looked like it was on the verge of crumbling inward. And there was always the risk this was the house they'd been looking for.

The door swung open at a nudge. Dean stuck his head inside and then followed with the rest of him. "Looks pretty fucking empty," Dean said. "I don't smell any sulfur." Castiel took a deep breath and confirmed that while the air inside smelled musty and faintly of mold, there wasn't a trace of a demon's signature scent. Which didn't mean they were safe, but was somewhat reassuring.

Castiel glanced back and caught a glimpse of forking lightning darting down. It remained imprinted on his eyelids as he moved after Dean into the rotting house.

When the door closed behind them, Castiel felt a strange shiver crawl down his spine, and froze. "We should search the house," he said abruptly, and Dean turned to him, eyes narrowing.

"Do you…"

"Just a feeling."

Castiel was suddenly aware of the guns they'd poached from the hunters and precisely how useless they would be against anything that wasn't a human. "I'll take the basement," Dean said, and Castiel could see him coiling tight, the shift in his demeanor from Dean to hunter. "You take the ground floor and the upstairs."

Castiel nodded shortly, and set down his bag to remove the gun from it. No matter how useless, it might at least give someone pause. And it made him feel better. Slightly. The sound of thunder overhead drew his eyes upward, and seemed to shake the house. Dean's mouth tightened into a thin line.

"Yell if you find something," Dean said, tone more of an order than Castiel had heard from him since Dean had died, and Castiel nodded shortly, moved into the kitchen.

The house creaked under his feet. The kitchen was bare and dusty. One of the windows was broken, and rain was coming in through the cracks, leaving a patch of mold on the counter where the damp had settled in. Looking at the ground, he couldn't see any tracks or signs of movement.

There was probably nothing here, Castiel thought dully, looking at the drawers, one of them hanging slightly open. It seemed a little like there was nothing anywhere, just him and Dean walking through this slow decay, in denial.

"Cas!"

Dean's shout was almost drowned out by the _thrummm-crack _of the storm, but Castiel almost felt it, he imagined, in his bones. He froze.

"_Cas! _Get your ass down here!"

There was an edge on Dean's voice he hadn't heard in a long time. Not desperation but something else.

The door to the basement stairs was ajar. Castiel moved slowly, walking down the stairs one at a time. His stomach felt like it was trying to twist inside out and he swallowed hard a few times. There was no light except for the shaft coming down through the door, dim and grey.

It was enough.

Dean's eyes gleamed in the half-dark. "Cas," he said, voice suddenly gone hoarse. "Help me."

Half dragged into his arms, pale and unconscious, hair hanging in his eyes, was Sam.

~.~

Dean's thin veneer of calm and determination had cracked like an eggshell. His eyes were wide with barely disguised panic. For the past few minutes words had been tumbling out of his mouth almost too fast to follow, "Jesus, I didn't even – he was just curled up in the corner there, fuck, Cas, he's burning up, Sammy-"

Castiel examined himself for his own reaction, and discovered nothing but numbness. Faint surprise.

Quiet dread.

Sam was lying on a rug upstairs, out of the dark, musty basement, and the dim light wasn't doing him any favors. Castiel had hoped the shade of Sam's skin had just been a trick of the light. It wasn't. Dean's eyes had gone blank and hollow when Castiel dared to glance his way, his fingers pressed to Sam's neck. They hadn't left once. Dean was swearing under his breath, low and vehement and continuous.

"The demons," Castiel said, and trailed off. A question they couldn't answer. If they weren't here, the demons were probably gone, though it was anyone's guess why, or where, or when they'd return.

"Cas, focus," Dean snapped. "I need you to see if there's – some kind of kit here. Gauze and bandages and-" Dean seemed to choke on the words. His hand on Sam's pulse shook minutely. "We need to _do _something."

Castiel could hear the faint wheeze in Sam's breathing. His skin was verging on grey and there was blood under his nose, across half his face. _At least they didn't cut him open, _Castiel thought grimly, and rocked slightly, back on his heels and then forward again.

"Cas," Dean growled, and his fingers seemed to press harder, as if confirming for himself that there was still a heartbeat to maintain. "_Move._"

Castiel went, going upstairs to check the bathroom there. His experience with treating wounds was limited. Dean knew more about this. If anyone…

(He thought of the cat again, but he knew exactly why this time, and felt a surge of anger heat his blood. _No, _he thought. _Not this time._)

In the cabinet upstairs, Castiel found one old bottle of unlabeled pills, and nothing more. He retreated back downstairs and found Sam still laid out unmoving, but Dean had unbuttoned his shirt and pushed up the layers and was looking at the map of bruises mottling Sam's torso with dismay. His skin gleamed with sweat.

Outside, Castiel could still hear the rain coming down hard.

"I don't know what's wrong," Dean said, without turning. "It could be – fuck, broken ribs, internal bleeding, and there's nothing I can do, and _you're _useless, and- Sam, wake up, I need you to wake up and _tell me what's wrong-"_

"Dean," Castiel said, heavily. "There's nothing here. Nothing useful."

Dean's head jerked up and there was something half-feral in his eyes. "Nothing _useful?_ What, is this how – am I supposed to learn something from this, huh? Is there some kind of _point _to this, because if there isn't then _why the fuck _bring me back, what kind of _sick fuck _would bring me back just to-"

Sam twitched, minutely. His lips, dry and cracked, moved slightly. Dean froze. "God, please," he said, and his voice cracked, "Sam, come on, Sammy," and even if Dean claimed he never prayed, Castiel knew prayer when he heard it, and now it just made him sick.

_There's got to be a reason we're alive, right? _He remembered Sam's voice. Soft and slightly plaintive. Not expecting anyone to hear. A reason.

Thunder rolled overhead. Castiel imagined reaching for that spark of power, finding it buried deep but never gone, once an angel, always an angel. _I reward your faith, Castiel. _He imagined healing Sam with a touch, flying them all somewhere far away where they could heal. Imagined the feeling of wind under his wings and the way Sam had smiled when he'd first seen an angel, all his faith affirmed.

For a moment, it was so real he almost did reach for it. But Castiel had felt his grace go.

The room smelled like death. _You have to burn me. I don't want to come back._ "Get some water," Dean said, sharply, and Castiel said, "From where?"

Sam opened his eyes.

His stare stayed almost terrifyingly blank for a long moment, and then it filled quickly with uncomprehending terror and Sam's body surged against Dean's hands holding him down, a strangled cry bursting from his throat. Castiel's jaw locked like it was wired closed.

"Sam," Dean was saying, "Sam, come on, _Sam-_"

Castiel saw the moment comprehension dawned and Sam's eyes opened wide, expression frozen. Sam's entire body quivered.

"Dean?" His voice sounded like a body dragged over gravel. His eyelids fluttered.

"Yeah," Dean said, and Castiel was sure he was the only one who saw it, the wistful flicker back in Sam's eyes. He heard Dean's breath hitch briefly as the corners of Sam's mouth turned up. Then he was gone again.

But still alive. Still, for now, alive.

"We found him, Cas," Dean said, lifting his eyes, and there was something like terrified defiance in his gaze. _We can do this, _his gaze insisted. Castiel swallowed hard.

"I'll go get some water," he said, finally. Perhaps he wasn't what he had been. But there was still work to be done.

They weren't dead yet, any of them.

Surely that meant something.


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Note: I can't make any promises, but this might be the last chapter, barring an epilogue. This story is definitely drawing to a close, though. Thank you so much for sticking with me through this mess, everyone who has reviewed/alerted/favorited. You are all wonderful. _

* * *

Sam was still alive the next morning.

Still burning with fever and not conscious, but he was still alive, and was significant enough. Castiel had managed to find an ancient pump out back of the house that still worked, though the water ran out rusty for a couple minutes before it started to come clear. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Castiel had gone to sleep after Dean had snapped at him and then pleaded for reassurance for the fifth time, and managed a couple restless and uncomfortable hours. When he came down, Dean was sitting next to Sam's prone body, an expression of studied concentration on his face as he wiped away the blood on Sam's face with what looked like the remnants of a towel. His eyes, when he looked at Castiel, were red-rimmed.

Castiel suspected it was not just tiredness, but there was a new fierceness in Dean's eyes that told him it would be a bad idea to say anything comforting.

"How is he?" Castiel asked, neutrally. Dean looked back down at his brother, pale with spots of bright color in his cheeks.

"Not good," Dean said, lowly. "He woke up about a half an hour ago. Didn't seem to recognize me."

Castiel considered suggesting that Dean rest, and decided that it would probably not go over well at all. He sat down on the floor instead, looked at Sam. This close, he could hear the faint wheeze in Sam's breathing. _Don't die now, _he wanted to say. _Don't do that to Dean. Don't do that to me. _

But if Sam had been thin before, and tired, now he looked exhausted. Devastated and used, like an old blanket, to the point of wearing through. Castiel breathed through his nose.

"What's wrong with him?"

Dean shook his head, tightly, and didn't look at Castiel. The determination on his face intensified as he dropped the wet towel to the floor and smoothed Sam's hair off his forehead in what looked like a casual, careless gesture. "Just bruises, mostly. Some…other things. I took care of it. Those…the hunters can't have had him long. I can't…" Dean's head jerked sharply from side to side. "I don't know if he's sick or…something else."

Demons didn't have to break skin to rip someone apart, and with their lack of equipment- Castiel cut off that thought. "But hey," Dean said, and sounded like he was forcing his voice level, "We found him, right? And _you _said we wouldn't."

_Is this so much better? _Castiel was almost tempted to ask, _getting the chance to watch him die? Will that give you the closure you want? _It wouldn't help him, Castiel knew. He wished he could at least tell himself that Sam would be leaving pain behind if he died, but he wasn't that good of a liar yet.

If they all lived through this, perhaps he would get the chance to learn.

"I can make some food," he offered, because Dean didn't look like budging. Looked like he would rather do anything else, really. Castiel was almost annoyed, but that wasn't…entirely fair.

"Yeah," Dean said, absently. "That'd probably be good." Sam's head twisted to the side and he made a small, hurt sound. Dean twitched.

"Maybe we can get him to eat," Castiel said, carefully. Dean nodded, minutely, his eyes shifting back to Sam's face. He looked tense.

"Yeah," Dean said, something almost bordering on belligerent in his voice. "Maybe."

Castiel retreated into the kitchen to let Dean fuss without shame. _Please, _he thought, briefly, and cut off that thought, too. What had his prayers done thus far?

He wondered if the demons would return for them all. They were nearly defenseless, right now. He wondered if Sam had crawled into that basement on his own or been left there (to die, to wait).

Castiel found a pot in one of the cabinets and filled it with water, then went to go search for a way to heat it.

There was a fireplace in one of the rooms, and some only slightly damp wood by the side of the house. Castiel looked at the wood with the pot in one hand, and wondered just for a moment if maybe someone was still watching them, taking care of them-

Thinking that way would only lead to disappointment, though. There had been plenty of times, over the years, small blessings that made Castiel think that maybe, _maybe _someone would intercede, that his father was only waiting for the right moment to reveal his hand and save his creation.

Hadn't he, in the end? In some way? There was still no explanation for why Sam had survived even this long, why Dean was alive again. Castiel's thoughts half formed a prayer (a plea). _Please, Father, if you hear me now…_

Castiel shook the thoughts off and went back inside to tell Dean that he was going to attempt to make a fire to boil some water.

He stopped when he heard Dean talking lowly, for a moment thinking – but no, he could tell by the tone of voice that it wasn't a conversation, that Dean didn't expect a response. "Hey, Sam," Dean said. "I know you're probably surprised to…uh, hear me. Again. Been looking for you for a little while now. You didn't make it easy, you know?"

Castiel set the pot down on the counter and leaned against it, half closing his eyes to listen.

"Yeah, okay," Dean said, "I mean – I guess you can ignore me if you want. Bitch. But there's some stuff we should really talk about. I know…I know Cas said I was dead, but I mean, at this point that's something other people do, right?" Dean made a sound that was probably supposed to be a laugh.

"I missed you," Dean said, quieter, and then, even quieter, voice cracking slightly, "Come on, Sammy. Please be okay. You shouldn't have left. I don't know…you shouldn't have left. So don't do it now."

Castiel closed his eyes. He forced himself to straighten and cleared his throat before stepping into the main room. Dean's head snapped up.

"I was going to start a fire," Castiel said. "To heat some water."

For a moment, Dean looked angry. Then he looked away. "Yeah," he said. "Sure. Whatever." His hand reached out and brushed against Sam's flushed cheek, then pulled away. Castiel kept his face expressionless and averted his eyes.

~.~

Castiel watched the water boil. Dean watched Sam sleep. Neither of them spoke. Castiel didn't understand his own quietly simmering sense of anger.

Sam woke up when Castiel was pouring the pasta into the pot, and Castiel knew because Dean abruptly went perfectly still and said, "Sammy? Hey, hey, it's okay, it's me."

Castiel turned, just in time to see Sam's eyes open, Dean's expression intense like he was trying to will Sam conscious. "Sam, god," Dean said, and his voice cracked slightly. Castiel swallowed his own greeting, just watched. Sam's tongue flicked out over his lips and he made a small, unhappy sound.

"What is it," Dean asked, leaning a little closer, and Sam shook his head from side to side, squeezing his eyes shut.

"No," he said, abruptly. "No. Stop. Stop, please. Not him."

Dean jerked like he'd been slapped. Castiel almost wanted to laugh, but it would have been a harsh and bitter (and cruel) sound. "Sam," he said, again, unhappily, and Castiel saw Sam's whole body spasm.

"Just don't be Dean. Please don't be Dean."

"Maybe you should step back," Castiel said, quietly. The look Dean shot him was venomous, but he moved back, and Sam's breathing seemed to ease, though it was still a thin and half desperate sound. "Sam?"

"Cas?" Sam said, quieting slightly. Castiel crossed the room from his post at the fire and sank down next to Sam and his blankets. The floor was colder than he'd expected. Sam blinked up at him, eyes still bleary and slightly glazed. "I don't…"

Castiel could feel Dean's eyes boring into his back. "It's all right," he said, though it wasn't – it was the kind of lie he'd gotten good at telling, over time. Sam's wide eyes seemed to soften.

"You're here." It was barely loud enough to hear, and Sam sounded…_relieved. _So completely and totally relieved that it almost hurt to hear, and Castiel gritted his teeth. What had he ever done to deserve this strange value Sam seemed to place on his presence? Dean's glare seemed to grow hotter.

"Myself and your brother," Castiel added, not sure why he bothered with the appeasing gesture, especially when Sam tensed again.

"Dean? –-but I—"

"Can't keep me down, Sam," Dean cut in, and Sam's eyes flickered from Castiel away and back again. Castiel could see his pulse flutter under the nearly translucent skin of his neck, a little faster.

"He's dead," Sam whispered, to Castiel, like it was a secret. "I remember. Please. I wanna be done."

_I just wanted an end. _Castiel wondered if it wasn't cruel to keep Sam alive, when he'd been trying to stop for years and couldn't even make that choice. To be done. Dean made a thin sound his throat that sounded painful, and Castiel focused.

What did he care for cruelty, Castiel told himself.

"Sam," Castiel said, and hardened his voice, tried to call back the memory of how he might have sounded years and years ago. "Listen to me. Dean was dead. He's been resurrected."

Sam blinked once, not seeming to understand. "Oh," he said. "That's…oh. Good."

His eyes drifted closed, and he was gone again. Castiel took a deep breath through his nose and leaned back, not sure exactly what the bottomless pit that had opened in his stomach was. He stood up, slowly.

The water over the fire was boiling just below the lip of the pot. He needed to go and stir it. The pasta was probably almost done. He glanced at Dean, who had a weird expression on his face.

"I'll finish the food," Dean said abruptly. "You stay with Sam." He turned his back on both of them, and even Castiel could read the hurt in his shoulders. Castiel briefly felt an intense urge to inform Dean that he had no right _at all _to be hurt, not here, not now.

He pushed it down and focused on the ragged sound of Sam's breathing instead. It was unpleasant and harsh and hitched on every inhale, but at this point every one felt a little like a miracle.

Or at least as much of one as he could expect anymore.

~.~

Sam woke up again to coaxing but didn't eat. Dean kept his distance with his head down and his shoulders hunched. Sam was fretful and feverish, half delirious; he grabbed Castiel's wrist and asked, plaintively, "Where's Dean?"

Dean tensed. "He's here," Castiel said, carefully. "Would you like to…talk to him?" Sam looked momentarily terrified and shook his head.

"No, he doesn't…no. Just tell him I'm sorry, okay? About everything. I don't want…I want him to know." Sam's eyelids drooped. "You'll tell him, right?"

Castiel heard Dean get up and leave the room. He didn't look over his shoulder. "Just rest," Castiel said instead of answering. "I'll be sure he knows."

Sam's smile was almost beatific. "Thank you for bringing him back, Castiel," Sam said. "And for bringing him back last time. And for staying with him when I couldn't, for being-" Sam made a short, abbreviated sound in his throat, shifted.

"Rest," Castiel said, more firmly. He glanced over his shoulder and could see Dean in the other room, leaning on the kitchen counter, his shoulders rigid. "We can talk about this later."

"You can't take later for granted," Sam said. "Dean always said that – _later. _We ran out of laters, and there were a lot of things I never got to…"

"Sam," said Castiel.

"I'm sorry," he said, whisper-soft, but at least this time the decision to close his eyes seemed to be intentional.

Castiel stood up and backed away after he was sure that Sam's breathing (still shallow but more regular now maybe than it had been) wasn't going to stop. He turned and ventured into the kitchen.

"Dean," he said, carefully.

"How about not, Cas."

Castiel pressed his lips together. "Did you think it would be easy?" he said, and perhaps a touch of scorn, or something, crept into his voice that he didn't mean to be there. Dean's knuckles went white as his hands clenched on the counter.

"No." Dean's voice was rough, harsh. "I didn't expect that. Nothing ever is, not for us."

Castiel pushed down the sudden wave of frustration that made him want to say _not just for you, for anyone, nothing is easy, the world is full of pain and strife. _It wouldn't help to pick a fight with Dean. "You'll get your chance," he said, instead, and made an effort to make it sound sympathetic.

(Sometimes he wished he'd ever had that gift, for sympathy, for compassion. If he had, he'd lost it long ago, like most things.)

"My chance for what?" Dean said, and the edge was sharper, more bitter. "I don't even…I don't even know what I'm going to say. He didn't even _recognize _me."

"It's been five years since he saw your face," Castiel pointed out, "And a lot has changed in the intervening-"

"_I get it," _Dean snapped, turning, his expression tight and rigid. "It's my fault, right? I screwed up, and I can't just expect everything to be hunky-dory-"

"That's not what I meant," Castiel said, and Dean snorted.

"Really?" Maybe it was, a little. Castiel did not think admitting that (particularly now) would be a very wise move. He struggled with what he did want to say, and remained silent for a little too long, apparently. Dean scoffed. "Yeah," he said, "I get the idea. I just…"

_You wanted everything to be fine. We'd find Sam and you'd reconcile; that's what you wanted. _Dean's shoulders slumped, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Never mind."

Castiel took a deep breath through his nose. "Dean," he started to say, and Dean glared balefully at him again.

"What are you going to say, Cas? That it'll be okay? I'm not that stupid. We're like sitting ducks here, and Sam could still-" His head jerked to the side. "It'd be just like our lives," Dean said bitterly. "Get this fucking close and he dies. Proof _someone _has a sense of humor, right?"

Castiel bit his tongue.

"I'm going to sleep," Dean said abruptly. "Let me know if anything changes."

~.~

Sam's fever rose and fell over the course of the day, breathing like a living thing. Sam himself alternated between nightmares that left him crumpled and whimpering and a stillness like death. Castiel preferred the former, though either way there seemed painfully little he could do. Dean had tended everything that could be tended, bandaged what could be bandaged, and now it was just a waiting game.

It left Castiel with too much time to think.

He watched the windows, half expecting a cloud of black smoke to appear at any moment, or a demon, grinning, to open the door, _well well, look what we caught. _They needed to move. They didn't have anywhere to go.

Dean didn't come back down the stairs.

Sam roused a little more fully after dark, his color a little stronger and seeming more lucid. Castiel, staring at the windows and realizing how easy it would be to not even see their doom coming (what would it matter, then again, what savor to life like this) didn't realize until he heard the harsh intake of breath. He half turned, to a blurry, mumbled, "Cas?" which Castiel thought marked the first time Sam had used that nickname. "S'zat really you?"

"Yes," said Castiel, simply. Sam blinked at him a few times before simply saying, "Oh," and dropping his head back down. His eyes remained open, however. Castiel stayed where he was and waited. The silence seemed to stretch and drag.

"I wasn't sure," Sam said quietly, finally. "You said Dean was here, and I thought…" Sam made a soft sound like a snort. "I dunno. That you were…_he _used to do that. Sometimes. To make sure I remembered…" Sam twitched and shuddered slightly, face turning away. Castiel crossed the distance and tucked the blanket more securely around Sam, on instinct, before answering.

"Dean is here," he said, making his voice as level and even as possible. "He is upstairs. Sleeping."

Sam stilled. Castiel could almost see him warring with himself, _is it, is it true, can I believe- _and knew the moment when he gave in to what had to be hope (relief) by Sam's sudden exhalation. "Oh god," he said, weakly. "God. Thank god. I wanted…I hoped if I…he came back."

Castiel's stomach flipped in a way it hadn't for a while; a new and different kind of dread. "Sam," he said, and knew his own voice had gone hard. "What did you do-"

Sam opened one eye and smiled, very slightly. "I just argued my case," he said, voice hoarse and too quiet. "To anyone who was listening."

"Sam-"

"It's okay," Sam said, and his expression was, for a moment, almost beatific. "The world needs Dean. You need Dean. It wasn't right that he died and I didn't. I just had to…make someone get that."

Castiel wanted to grit his teeth, wanted to say _and what gives you the right to give up, didn't we say-_

"We've been looking for you for five days," Castiel said, voice flat. "Dean and I. Your brother has been relentless. I am not certain he has slept the last few nights."

Sam blinked, not seeming to understand. His expression flickered. "I just needed-"

Castiel narrowed his eyes and went on, cutting Sam off. "I thought you were probably dead and we would never know. Dean refused to admit it, but he feared the same."

"Cas," said Sam, voice slightly rough-edged.

"No," Castiel hissed, "You do not get to- do you ever think of _anyone _but yourself? I don't care what you want, I don't care how miserable you are, I don't-"

"_Cas._"

That wasn't Sam. That was Dean, voice a low, dark rumble, and for a brief moment Castiel wondered if Dean had been planning this, waiting for the perfect moment to swan in like a rescuer, and then he shut his mouth with what he imagined was an audible snap. Sam's head turned, and he made a soft, barely audible sound in the back of his throat.

"How about you back off?" Dean said, and there was an edge on his voice that it had been _years _since Castiel had heard, since the very earliest days when others knew who Sam was (could be) and suggested proactive action.

_Couldn't we just, _they said, and Dean said simply, _no. _For all his bitterness and anger and fear, still (at least then) –

_No. _

Castiel took a couple steps back, biting the inside of his cheek so he didn't say anything. "It's okay," Sam said, and Dean, over him, "Shut up, Sam," harsh enough that Sam flinched. Dean's eyes narrowed as he stared at Castiel.

"Thought you said you were going to wake me up if anything changed."

Castiel thought to wonder, briefly, why he hadn't. He said nothing, though, held Dean's gaze in a way he couldn't have before. Dean's mouth tightened. "Go get some water or something," he said, "I've got this."

Sam seemed frozen. Staring at his brother as if there was no one else in the room, and Castiel felt his stomach clench and wasn't sure why. "Fine," he said, finally, and turned on his heel to go outside to the pump.

"Dean," he heard, softly, behind his back. Hoarse and almost reverent. _You don't deserve, _Castiel thought harshly, and then wasn't sure who he meant, and was too aware that none of them deserved anything much at all.

He didn't listen to the rest. When he came back in with a bucket of water, though, Sam was half upright if shaking violently, Dean supporting him, and clinging to his brother like the only solid thing in the world. He was making small, desperate, barely muffled noises where his face was pressed into Dean's shoulder.

Castiel fell still. Dean's eyes were closed and his face looked damp.

He set the water down and left the room, and then the house, feeling strangely hollow.

~.~

Dean emerged a couple hours later, just as the barest hints of light were beginning to touch the sky. He looked exhausted, but somehow…lighter. Like something suddenly made sense to him. "Hey," he said, and sat down. "He's asleep again."

"Has his fever broken?" Castiel asked, making his own voice level, almost clinical. Dean gleanced at him, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"No," he said, "Not yet. But I think he's…maybe better. Might pull through this."

Castiel wanted to say _you don't know that. _Wanted to say _and what about the demons? _Wanted to say _what gives you the right to hope? _

He said nothing.

Dean breathed out, long and slow. "God. Cas, he's…he's still _Sam._" He shook his head. "Still the same goddamn fucking Sam."

"What did you expect?" Castiel asked, perhaps a little more sharply than was strictly necessary, but he couldn't care. Dean didn't even seem to notice.

"I don't know," he said, and ran a hand through his hair. "Something. I dunno. I mean, he's still…a mess. You know? Kept apologizing to me and saying…shit, I don't know." He paused, took a shaky breath. "And he's not…mad. I was…Sam can hold a grudge like nobody's business, you know? And I…but he's just _not._"

Castiel staired out at the horizon and nearly said _so nothing has changed, then, you can still do no wrong, of course he's not angry because it was always his fault. As it was always mine. That's why we followed you into death, isn't it? _"I see," he said, instead.

Dean rubbed his face and leaned back, kicking out his legs. He made a short, harsh sound, like a laugh."We all get through this, we're going to the fucking Grand Canyon. I think we've earned it, yeah?" He paused, then looked at Castiel. "You can have next shift. Now, I mean. He kept asking about you. If you were okay and everything." He narrowed his eyes. "I'm not going to apologize for earlier. Sam doesn't…he doesn't need anyone chewing him out right now, so whatever your issue is-"

Castiel made a derisive sound in his throat before he was aware of intending to do so. Dean's eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"I merely think," Castiel said, with less delicacy than he meant, "That it is somewhat – _rich _for you to act as though you have been so solicitous of your brother's health all along. To accuse me of having an "issue" with Sam when you-"

"Stop right there, Cas," Dean said, harshly. Castiel ignored him, stood up stiffly.

"Nothing ever changes with you," he said. "You never look back. You never look at yourself, never-"

"What is your _problem?_" Dean said, standing up as well, voice taking on a harsh edge. "You've gone all weird since we- are you _disappointed _that Sam's alive, or something?"

"No," Castiel snapped. "If you've forgotten, I am the one who has been most lately-"

"Don't pull that out on me," Dean said, voice darkening. "Sam and me are okay, you don't have any right to-"

"And what have you done?" Castiel said, cutting him off. "What have you done to deserve any of this, to deserve getting what you wanted? One could easily accuse you of doing more than your fair share to bring on the end. One could easily lay Lucifer's rise at your door. Your hands are stained with as much blood as anyone's, and you couldn't even surrender yourself to faith until it was far too late. You never believed in God, or in Sam, or in _me_ and you-" Castiel realized his voice had raised almost to the point of yelling, and made no effort to moderate it. "You ascend to heaven. You are brought back and given a second chance with your brother, given peace, forgiveness, and-"

"Cas," Dean said, his voice odd.

"_What did you do to deserve this reward? _I kept my faith in God long after the last shreds of my grace were gone. I kept my faith in you even longer. I kept Sam alive when all I wanted was to let him die, and I followed you into the wild when I believed there was no hope of resolution. And this is what I have, Dean: I have you and Sam, to whom I am now extraneous; I have an empty and fading world that I don't belong in; I have the memory of what I was and no eternity of peace waiting when I die. You are God's favorite son, and you haven't earned it, while I have sacrified everything I have and ended up with nothing. So don't tell me what I don't have a right to. Don't-"

He cut off. Dean was staring at him with something like appalled fascination. Castiel stared back, waiting.

"Jesus, Cas," Dean said, finally. Castiel turned for the door, hoping that somehow Sam hadn't woken, that he wouldn't have to discuss this twice.

"Nothing is fair, and I know that," Castiel said, flatly. "But I don't believe I have to like it."

He closed the door quietly behind himself. Sam was where they had left him, still pale and still. Castiel sat down cross-legged and waited. Watched.

Dean didn't come back inside.

Castiel didn't let himself feel guilty. Kept vigil. "Where do we go from here?" he asked Sam, quietly. "Where do _I _go from here?"

Sam, of course, didn't answer, and Castiel didn't have one for himself.

~.~

Castiel didn't realize that he had fallen asleep until he woke up with his head aching and Dean sitting on one of the decaying chairs and watching him and Sam both. "Fever broke," Dean said, voice suspiciously level and even. "He woke up a little while ago but not for long. Pretty exhausted."

"To be expected," Castiel said, on the same tone. "But that's good news."

"Yeah. Probably." Dean rolled one shoulder back. "It's still…this used to happen. He'd be better and then get a whole lot worse."

"Have you asked him about the demons?" Castiel asked, and Dean glanced at Sam sharply like he thought the word alone would wake his brother.

"No," said Dean, almost curtly. "Jesus. The last thing he needs is to worry more."

"They could come back at any time."

"Or maybe they had their jollies and left him for dead," Dean retorted back, and Castiel nearly winced.

"Demons wouldn't leave anyone for dead they could kill themselves," Castiel said, making his voice flat and hard. "The slower, the better. You _know _that." Did not say: you were good at it yourself, once. Dean seemed to hear it anyway, by the way he tensed.

"We leave here," Dean said, "Where do we go?" And that was the problem wasn't it; Sam wasn't well and who knew where the next shelter would be, what condition it might be in. Castiel subsided. Dean was watching him closely.

"Cas," he said, suddenly. "I'm sorry." and Castiel turned his head to stare at him, startled. "What you said," Dean went on, haltingly. "It's all…pretty damn true. I'm no saint, never thought I was. And you're…hell, you were the only decent angel in the bunch. And a damn good – friend. I…never woulda made it as far as I did without you." Dean scuffed his shoe along the floor. "If I could do…you deserve a lot better than me and Sam and our mess."

Castiel blinked blankly at Dean, taken aback. Uncomprehending. Finally, he said, "I may have spoken too harshly."

Dean shook his head. "Not really. You've got a lot to be pissed about. And out of all of us, you've probably got the least to pay for." Castiel looked at him silently, and Dean's gaze fell to Sam's sleeping features. "So. Yeah. Thought you should know."

Castiel looked at Sam as well, lying quietly between them. He couldn't find the words he wanted to say, wasn't even sure what they were. His heart squeezed like a fist had wrapped around it. They were still so far away, from anything. From peace, if they could even have that.

Sam shifted, mouth moving in words that Castiel couldn't read. He twitched again, and one eye opened halfway.

"Dean?" He said blearily, apparently roused by their conversation. He looked pale, but less gray, perhaps. Castiel watched Dean's face, saw it go soft and fond.

"Right here, Sammy."

"You 'kay?"

Dean moved forward, dropped to his knees and pushed the hair off Sam's forehead. "Yep." Sam's brow creased.

"Castiel?"

"He's here too. You good, Cas?" Dean's voice was rough and quiet, a far cry from even a moment ago. Castiel's heart thudded hard, twice.

"Yes," he said, carefully. "I am well."

"Hear that?" Dean said, and almost smiled. "We're all good. I'm good, Cas is good, you're good. Wanna rest a little more?"

"Dean," said Sam again,fading out fast.

"Yeah," said Dean. "We'll still be here when you wake up. Not going anywhere, kiddo. I'm not going anywhere."

Castiel watched them, Sam's hand groping to wrap around Dean's wrist and squeeze weakly, Dean's hand on Sam's forehead lingering like a benediction. He thought, _I am seeing one soul mended, here. _

Thought, almost at the same time, _this is what grace looks like. _Not the blue-white glow of an angel's power. This. Just this.

For a moment, a few precious, bright moments, even for Castiel, it was like touching what he'd never have again.

It was enough.


End file.
